


In That New World Which Is the Old

by Arrested



Series: The Day-Dream [9]
Category: Ivanhoe, Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Anachronistic Social Attitudes, Angst, Child Abuse, Dom/sub Undertones, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master/Slave, Middle Ages, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Slavery, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-01-22 17:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 33,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12487384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrested/pseuds/Arrested
Summary: Sequel toAll Precious Things Discovered Late.Oscar and Wamba have committed themselves to one another, equal partners in the life of peace and acceptance they would seek to build, but the world is not yet content to let them be. As the return of old friends and forgotten enemies upends all their intentions, a looming power greater than any they have yet faced threatens to tear down everything they have won, and they are forced to fight once more for the freedom define for themselves the meaning of home and of family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally inspired by Sir Walter Scott’s _Ivanhoe_ , this work borrows characters and backstory from that novel. A passing familiarity with it is helpful but by no means required to follow the events of this story.
> 
> Caveat lector:  
> 1\. This is a work of historical fiction that has not been rigorously researched. Liberties have been taken with every aspect of medieval life and the sensibilities of the people of that time.  
> 2\. This is a work of slash fiction. The central romantic relationships explored are all between two men.  
> 3\. This work is fairly dark. It contains multiple references to and sometimes graphic descriptions of abuse, torture, murder, and rape.
> 
> This story is my original work. All rights are reserved.

There was ice in the air when Oscar stepped outside. It chilled his lungs and pricked his throat on the first inhale, causing him to cough out a cloud of white breath as he tugged his scarf up to cover his nose and mouth. Hugging his jacket closed and hunching his shoulders against the bitter breeze, he cast a baleful glance at the iron gray sky and crunched his way determinedly across the frosted dirt of the stable yard. The satchel slung about his body thumped against his leg with each step.

The guard manning the side gate extracted one gloved hand from the heavy swathes of his cloak to wave at Oscar, and Oscar acknowledged him with a nod as he stepped out through the portal and trudged on toward the long shape of the tribunal. Icicles lined the low eaves above the rear door like menacing fangs. Oscar eyed them warily as he approached and quickened his step as he passed below to shoulder open the door.

A burst of blessed warmth greeted him as he slipped quickly inside and slammed the door shut behind him. He pulled his scarf away from his face and rubbed his hands together, blowing into his cupped palms to warm them as he turned. The antechamber was cozy from the heat of the flames leaping in the grate. Their light danced along the edges of the books and scrolls crowding the shelves that stood sentry to either side of the hearth, and gilded the aged wood of the heavy desk that sat squarely in the center of the small room. There were three chairs around it, but Oscar was surprised to see that only one was occupied.

Colin was perched in the largest chair, quill in hand and sandy head bent so close over his parchment that his nose was nearly touching it, though he hastened upright as his solitude was disturbed. “Oscar!”

Oscar greeted him with a grin and a nod to his chosen seat. “I see you’ve promoted yourself to magistrate. Far past time for it, if you ask me.”

Colin popped up out of the chair as though it had bitten him, a guilty flush pinking his cheeks. The chair rocked back and knocked him behind the knees. He yelped and wobbled, while Oscar chuckled. Two years under Wamba’s tutelage had transformed him into a skilled asset to the tribunal. He had long ago surpassed Oscar in that regard and, according to Wamba, proved himself a worthy candidate to one day take on the weightier duties of justice as well. But all his diligent study had done nothing to remedy his clumsiness, now compounded by the gawkiness of his limbs after he had sprouted to nearly Oscar’s height over the course of only a few seasons.

“He doesn’t mind me using it when he’s not here,” Colin said, fumbling with the documents on the desk. “The other ones are so hard.”

“Well do I remember it,” Oscar said, watching with growing curiosity as Colin attempted to slide the parchment he had been working on beneath another that lay nearby.

Oscar swung his satchel around and pulled open the flap, approaching the desk as he scooped out the loosely bound collection of scrolls within. He dropped the whole armful onto the desk with a deliberately careless flip of his wrist that sent two of them bouncing off onto the floor.

Colin quickly scrambled to retrieve them, bending down to chase one that skittered away from his hand. As his head disappeared beneath the desk, Oscar reached over and plucked his parchment out from its hasty concealment. He flipped it over, and his brows rose as he saw what was written there in Colin’s neat hand.

“Well, well,” he said lightly. “Who knew you had the soul of a poet?”

“That’s private!” Colin scrambled up over the desk and snatched the parchment from Oscar’s hand, a ruddy flush blossoming across his face. Oscar relinquished it without it a word. Colin grumbled something under his breath and thumped back down into Wamba’s chair. He crushed the sheet in his hand and dropped it onto the table top, then collapsed into a dejected slump.

Oscar watched all of this, beset by an acute sympathy for the boy’s obvious misery. He stepped around the desk and settled beside Colin with one hip resting on the edge. “I could give you a hand with it,” he offered. “If you want.”

Colin shot him an incredulous look, then turned his gloomy gaze to the crumpled ball of parchment again. “Thanks, but I think I’d rather take my chances on my own.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Oscar reached out and knuckled the top of his head. “I’ll have you know I’ve written a verse or two in my time, and all of them very well received.”

Colin dodged away from Oscar’s hand with a snort. “That’s no surprise. He would love a dirty tavern song if you were the one to recite it for him.”

“You do have a point,” Oscar conceded with a shrug, unable to quite contain his smirk at the thought of serenading Wamba with one of the obscene ballads he had learned during his misspent youth. “So, who’s the lucky lady, then?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Colin sighed.

“Come on.” Oscar prodded his leg with the toe of his boot. “I won’t tell.”

Colin glanced at him sidelong. “You promise?”

“You have my word,” Oscar swore, laying a hand over his heart. “I will not tell a soul.”

“It’s Claire.”

“Claire?” Oscar leaned back, raising his eyes to the ceiling as he tried to place the name. He was able to conjure a vague memory of a petite, pretty girl recently to be seen among the usual flock of ladies in waiting. “Do you mean the queen’s little handmaid?”

Colin nodded.

Oscar chuckled. “Well, Colin, no one could accuse you of having poor taste.”

“It’s not funny.” Colin muttered, his flush creeping back into his cheeks.

Oscar swallowed down his humor, and schooled himself to treat Colin’s torment with the gravity it deserved. He was not so far removed from his own long purgatory of wretched pining, after all, to have forgotten the acute misery of unrequited emotion.

He looked at the crumpled parchment, thinking about what he would choose to do if it were he in Colin’s place. “Does she particularly favor poetry?”

“I don’t know,” Colin admitted. “It’s just the first thing I could think of that might catch her favor. I’m useless at fighting.”

“You know,” Oscar said, “if it’s her favor you want, you might be able to win that without straining yourself on a field of battle or of art. Isn’t Claire the one with that little bit of white fluff always chasing about her heels?” That, at least, he remembered clearly, a ridiculous confection of an dog hardly worthy to be called such.

“Etienne,” Colin said. “What about him?”

Oscar smiled, pleased with his own ingenuity. “Well, if Etienne were to wander off and become lost for a while, I imagine Claire would be very grateful to whatever daring fellow was to bring him safely home.”

“You’re suggesting I steal her dog?” Colin gaped at Oscar in disbelief. “You think that’s the way to win her favor?”

“I did say you should give him back,” Oscar retorted with a shrug. “And she doesn’t need to know it was you that took him. Sometimes the course of love just needs a little help. That’s all.”

Colin was laughing long before he had finished. “You would make a terrible father, giving that sort of advice.”

“So my brother has told me many times.” Oscar said. “I suppose it’s a good thing I’ll never have to worry about refining that particular skill.”

“Thanks anyway, Oscar.” Colin was smiling, his shoulders dropping as his mood lifted. Oscar decided to count that as a victory.

“Anytime.”

“What are these?” Coin asked, pointing to the scrolls that Oscar had scattered across the desk.

“The records he asked for,” Oscar replied. “Every property and estate bequeathed to the church that I could find.”

“There are really this many?”

Oscar shook his head. “That’s only the last two years. Just since we rearranged the archive.”

“Alright,” Colin said. “I’ll give them to him tomorrow.”

“What is he doing mucking about in church business, anyway?” Oscar asked. “Hasn't he courted enough trouble from them already?”

It was a poorly kept secret at court that the new Archbishop of Canterbury had no fondness for Wamba. Oscar suspected that he had never relinquished his grudge for Wamba’s interference in his affairs while he was Bishop of York.

“I don’t know, exactly.” Colin waved a hand at the trove of requisitioned church documents on the shelves. “He’s been pulling down all sorts of things from those records, but he hasn’t told me exactly what he’s looking for.”

“Interesting.” Oscar tapped a finger against his chin, then pushed himself off the desk and straightened his empty satchel. “I suppose I’ll just have to ask him myself.”

Oscar tugged his scarf up over his nose again as he walked to the door, bracing himself to face the cold once more. He paused just before it.

“See you later, Colin.” He looked back at the boy, and winked. “Good luck.”


	2. Chapter 2

Wamba was not in their chambers when Oscar returned that evening, but there was a tray with supper waiting for him on the table. He built the waning fire back to a hearty blaze to ward off the pervading cold that had glazed the windows with frost, then did the same in the bedroom before he settled down to his solitary meal. The lumpy pottage was nearly tasteless, but it was still warm and Oscar devoured it with a will. The winter was already the harshest Oscar could recall in his life, barring only that one bleak season he had been forced to spend alone while Wamba was trapped at York.

The misery of those months for him had gone far beyond the inclemency of the weather, but the current unabated spell of bitter cold had consequences for more than just Oscar. It followed on a harvest diminished by poor yields and rampant blight, and the rumors were of a constant stream of the starving and destitute that arrived in the city each day. The inhabitants of the king’s tower were more sheltered than most from the deprivation, but even here those not lucky enough to be invited to the king’s table were obliged to subsist on the sort of humble dish that now graced Oscar’s bowl.

He had been raised on such fare, so he ate it with good cheer, then settled on the couch to savor his single cup of precious cider. He had just swallowed the last of it and set the cup aside when the door opened, and Wamba finally appeared. He hustled his way quickly toward the fire, pausing only to offer Oscar a warm smile.

“Hello, Oscar.”

“Hello.” Oscar grinned, though he was distracted by a spark of intense interest as he noted that Wamba was not in his robes.

The elegant black doublet and hose left the wardrobe for only the most formal of official business, to Oscar’s abiding regret. Nothing else made his lover appear quite so fine, a blessed blend of distinguished and desirable that drove Oscar’s thoughts down a decidedly lascivious turn.

“You’re looking very important,” he said, letting his admiration color his words.

Wamba chuckled as he extended his hands toward the fire. “The emissaries of King Philip’s court arrived today.”

That explained the finery. Wamba had been engaged for more than a month in the king’s efforts to seek resources to see the struggling kingdom through the winter. By his cheerful air, Oscar assumed that those labors were at last bearing fruit.

“They brought good news?”

“Very good,” Wamba nodded. “As of tonight, we have finally agreed upon a favorable set of terms for France to provide the provisions we require.”

The quiet satisfaction of that pronouncement throbbed in his voice, and the way the corners of his mouth turned up just softly, his joy at being of aid to those in need making Oscar’s heart beat just a little faster.

“It’s warmer over here, you know,” he said, patting the seat of the couch at his side.

Wamba quirked a knowing smile at him over his shoulder. “Is that so?”

“I’ve been keeping this seat warm for you especially,” Oscar told him, with utter sincerity.

“I suppose I can hardly refuse if you’ve gone to such trouble on my behalf.” Wamba left the fire to approach Oscar, but he stopped just shy of Oscar’s reach. “Although…”

“Although?” Oscar’s hand was already outstretched in impatient anticipation of him.

“Perhaps that is not the seat I would prefer,” Wamba said. He took that final step, and bent one knee up to plant it on the couch between Oscar’s legs. A cool hand cupped Oscar’s jaw, tilting his face up as Wamba bent down and laid his lips softly over Oscar’s.

Oscar breathed out a sigh through his nose, pressing up into the kiss as his hands at last found purchase on his lover’s body. They settled at Wamba’s waist, while Oscar prodded Wamba’s lips apart with his tongue and was quickly granted entrance. Wamba’s mouth was sweet with a hint of the rich wine favored by the king. Oscar lapped it from his mouth, letting his hands slide around Wamba’s back in an attempt to draw him in closer.

Wamba’s free hand threaded into Oscar’s hair, cradling the back of his head as Wamba gently pressed for control of the kiss. A thrill raced through Oscar at the subtle signs that his successful negotiation had left him in a mood to decide the course of their loving. Eleven times of every dozen, he still preferred to let Oscar lead in the familiar steps of that tender dance. But that last time, those rare nights when he asked with his small gestures for Oscar’s surrender, were the surest proof of the trust they had won between them.

This was how it usually began, the slow foray of Wamba’s tongue into Oscar’s mouth a question, never a demand, and when it came, Oscar could hardly tear his clothes off fast enough. Now, he responded to the gentle query with bald enthusiasm, falling back and twisting as he did, so that he could draw Wamba down between his open legs. Wamba followed, one hand braced on the arm of the couch, just beside the place where Oscar’s head fell to rest. His narrow hips settled down atop Oscar’s, pressed close between his thighs, warm and perfect.

He broke away from the kiss to study Oscar’s face with a soft smile, stroking his hair back from his brow with gentle fingers. Oscar stared back at him, his chest tight with the familiar ache of unbearable tenderness. He knew every line and angle of those dear features, could recall them without effort even when they were apart. But no matter how clear the memory, his eyes still hungered for the sight of his lover at the end of each day.

He reached up to trace his fingers through the lock of hair just above Wamba’s ear, where threads of silver were generously interwoven with the gold now. They were a subtle reminder of all he had survived, the life he had led nipping at his heels though he was not yet thirty. Oscar knew that many of those were his doing, artifacts of the difficult road they had taken to become what they were now. For all the pain, Oscar had no doubt that Wamba was worth that fight.

He slid his hand around to urge his lover down into another kiss, and hooked the leg that was not trapped against the back of the couch around Wamba’s leg. Wamba’s laugh swept across Oscar’s lips as he covered them, insistent now that he was assured of Oscar’s willingness. The cold fading quickly from his attention, Oscar rucked up the back of Wamba’s doublet to slip a greedy hand down into his trousers. He took an audacious grip on the spare flesh of Wamba’s rump, shocking a surprised sound from his throat and an insistent twitch of his hips against Oscar’s. It was a heady thing, to have every sense so filled with him, until the world was reduced to nothing but him. 

At least, until the sudden sound of creaking hinges broke that happy spell with a shock of icy panic. They startled apart, and stared at one another in wide-eyed horror, while Oscar’s heart stuttered and lurched within him.

Then a cheerful voice chirped, “Oh! Good evening, my lord. I didn’t realize you had returned.”

Oscar’s breath escaped him in a relieved gust, panic waning as Wamba looked up and cleared his throat. “Yes. Good evening, Emma.”

“I didn’t bring any supper for you. I thought you would be dining with the king. Did you want some?” Emma’s shoes tapped on the stone floor as she approached, and Oscar dared a peek at her from the corner of his eye.

“No, that’s perfectly alright,” Wamba said, his voice weak with disbelief. He shifted minutely against Oscar, who was painfully aware that they could not separate themselves without treating Emma to even more of a spectacle than they already had.

She had been in Wamba’s employ since Oscar first offered her the job after their return from Coningsburgh. It was a significant step up for her, removing her from the tyranny of the royal steward into a position of responsibility in the household of one of the king’s closest advisors. Most importantly, Oscar knew that she was a true friend who could be trusted to guard their secret. Over the course of two years, she had been witness to a great deal of affectionate gestures and remarks, but never had she been quite so dramatically confronted by their relationship.

To Emma’s credit, she appeared completely nonplussed by the delicate scene upon which she had unwittingly stumbled, a serene smile on her small face. There was, however, a distinct hint of amusement in the hazel eyes that met Oscar’s before she turned to collect the dishes on the table onto the tray.

“I’ll just clear this away, then,” she said pleasantly. “Will you be needing anything else, my lord?”

Wamba had finally lost the battle against his own embarrassment, and dropped his head down to hide his face against Oscar’s neck. “No, that will be all. Thank you, Emma.”

“Very well,” Emma said. “Enjoy your evening, my lord.”

They remained as they were, breathing slowly, while she bustled out and the door closed firmly behind her. Then Wamba collapsed down atop Oscar and began to laugh. Oscar was laughing, too, shedding the shock as he extracted his hand from Wamba’s trousers to wrap both arms around his shaking back.

“I’ll say it again,” he told Wamba. “We need a lock on that door.”

Wamba pushed up on his hands, his face flushed with laughter. He shook his head and smiled down at Oscar. “It wouldn’t do any good. She would have a key.”

“She isn’t the only one who might wander in unannounced,” Oscar reminded him.

The thought sobered both of them, and Wamba nodded. “Then by all means, do what will give you peace of mind.”

“I will,” Oscar said. He craned his neck up to brush his lips against the slope of Wamba’s mouth. “Tomorrow.”

Wamba returned the playful kiss, humor restored as he asked softly, “And tonight?”

Oscar smiled up at him. “Tonight is for you to decide.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I am about to begin the process of going back and editing _In the Morning of the Times_ and _All Precious Things Discovered Late_ to address my shameful typos and the worst of my writing tics. I won't be making any substantive changes to anything that happens, but if you are particularly fond of them as they are now, you might want to save an offline copy for yourself. Fair warning!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

The fire had driven back the worst of the chill in the bedchamber, but gooseflesh still rose on Oscar’s skin as the protection of his tunic was drawn away.

Wamba’s hands smoothed the little bumps down again, kindling a sparking hum of warmth as they trailed across his chest and down his waist to settle at his hips. Their boots were abandoned in the library. Wamba’s doublet lay draped over the edge of the empty tub, tossed aside by Oscar’s careless hands. The open collar of the simple linen shirt he wore beneath bared a slice of his pale throat, and the silver chain resting against his skin. Oscar traced the tips of his fingers along that gap, captivated by the strange vulnerability of it. Then he hooked a finger beneath the chain and drew it toward him, lifting it out from its hidden home.

The coin was warm from Wamba’s skin. The angles of the ancient words etched across its surface caught the firelight as Oscar rubbed it between his fingers. Wamba’s eyes rose to meet his, dark and liquid soft as he laid his hand flat over the mated half of that token, that which rested on Oscar’s own chest. The message of those runes was dutifully transcribed to parchment and stored away among Oscar’s belongings, but the truth of what they represented required no translation.

It dwelt there in the bare space between them, pulsing like a shared heart and drawing them irresistibly together. Wamba’s hand slid up Oscar’s chest and into his hair, urging him down without a word to affirm it once more. Oscar eagerly accepted the kiss, riding the slow waves of mounting desire as Wamba cupped a gentle hand over his sex and rubbed him in time to the soft motion of his mouth. The readiness with which Oscar’s body woke to his lover’s touch was no surprise to either of them. Soon enough he was straining his laces, and Wamba smiled against his lips as Oscar made a plaintive sound low in his throat.

“Come on,” he said, taking Oscar’s hand in his. He stepped back, and Oscar moved to follow him at once, hating every inch of unnecessary distance between them.

As he trailed Wamba to the bed, Oscar had the presence of mind to spare a glance for the door that led out into the corridor, ensuring that it was securely barred. It was, and the door to the library firmly closed behind them, their privacy as secure as they could reasonably expect. Then the full force of his attention was drawn back to his lover, who stood before him with a smile on his face. He swept a hand over Oscar’s cheek and asked softly, “Will you undress yourself for me?”

“Of course,” Oscar said, his hands flying at once to his painfully tight laces. He let his trousers fall to puddle at his feet and stepped out of them, then snuck one hand out to pluck at Wamba’s tunic with a grin. “While I’m at it, would you like me to undress you as well?”

Wamba laughed and stretched up to place an affectionate kiss on his cheek. “I think I can manage on my own tonight. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”

“How do you want me?” Oscar asked him.

“However you wish.”

Wamba swept the generous pile of furs and blankets off to one side, then stepped back from the bed to allow Oscar to climb up while he stripped off his own clothing. Oscar was momentarily fascinated by the skin abruptly on display, but forced himself to look away and do as he had been asked. He considered for one brief moment before he turned onto his front, bracing himself on his knees with his arms folded and his head resting atop them. 

The mattress dipped as Wamba climbed up beside him. Gentle hands settled on his hips, and warm lips laid a kiss just against the nape of Oscar’s neck. Oscar shuffled his knees open wider and breathed out a sigh, while Wamba laid a trail of slow kisses down his spine. His hands stroked up Oscar’s back, sweeping around and across his chest before they ventured down his belly to smooth along the sensitive insides of his parted thighs.

Oscar’s body sagged, back bowing as he fell under the spell of those stroking hands. Wamba did not bite and he did not bruise, as Oscar was wont to do, but there was no less power in his touch. His was a different sort of possession, a relentless onslaught of patient caresses that slowly turned Oscar’s limbs to liquid, unraveling him with that bottomless care and affection.

Before he knew it, Oscar was whimpering, hands kneading at the bedding for something to grasp while his sensitized skin twitched. He was on the verge of begging for something more, but the plea on his lips faded to a relieved moan when a single slick finger teased across his hole. He pushed back toward it eagerly, and was immediately rewarded when it slipped inside him.

He took it greedily, hungry for sensation. Wamba teased him with a few short strokes and a quick brush across that small miracle inside him that sent liquid fire darting up his spine. Then Wamba’s hand withdrew, and when it returned another finger had joined the first.

“Let me in, love,” he said, voice soft and rough as his lips found Oscar’s nape again. Oscar concentrated on letting his body surrender to that delicious intrusion, until Wamba was able to slip a second finger into him easily, then another a moment later.

The familiar stretch was just shy of painful, but the anticipation of the reward to follow had Oscar’s hips rocking eagerly back to meet Wamba’s hand. As always, Wamba was careful with him, coaxing him open with that nearly inhuman patience. It was Oscar whose restraint was first to expire, the aching want Wamba had nurtured in him forcing a hoarse entreaty from his throat. “Please.”

“Are you ready?” Wamba asked him, the hand that was not buried inside Oscar smoothing across the small of his back.

“Yes,” Oscar groaned. He clamped down deliberately on Wamba’s fingers. “Take me, husband.”

He could feel Wamba’s shudder, and savored the helpless sound he made. Oscar knew what the word did to him, and was not above using it this way if it won him what he wanted. His audacity was rewarded when Wamba was abruptly pressed against him, hands bracing Oscar’s hips while the hot brand of his cock slid along the slick valley of Oscar’s waiting rump. It was immediately dominant in his awareness, fiercely desired. He pushed up onto his elbows to drive back into it in insistent invitation.

Then his lover was finally inside him, sliding in smooth and slick and perfect until his hips were pressed flush to Oscar’s skin. Oscar moaned with the relief of it, letting the shuddering waves of delight course through him. Wamba’s chest came to rest on his back, covering him with warmth as his he rocked into Oscar in a gentle thrust.

Oscar had been surprised to discover how much he enjoyed being taken this way. It was not a particularly dignified pose, and had the distinct disadvantage of affording him no chance to enjoy Wamba’s kisses, nor to watch his composure shatter as he lost himself in Oscar’s body. Those pleasures were precious in and of themselves, but Oscar loved how neatly their bodies slotted together this way, as seamlessly as the two halves of their coin, and how deep into him Wamba was able to reach.

He rocked his hips back to meet Wamba, joining in the effort as they found a rhythm that set Oscar’s pendant swinging with every thrust.

“Oscar,” Wamba breathed his name, a hot exhalation panted into Oscar’s neck as his breath grew short. 

“Yes,” Oscar replied, the word the only one his pleasure fogged mind could grasp. “Yes.”

Then even that last coherent thought was stolen as Wamba shifted one hand from his hip to clasp his cock instead. Oscar keened, every muscle drawing tight as Wamba worked him in quick, determined strokes. He surrendered to it, his body moving of its own accord now, back to meet each thrust of his lover’s hips, then forward into the slick grip of his hand, until the pleasure surging inside of him finally burst free. His voice escaped him in a helpless cry as he pumped hot seed over Wamba’s hand.

His lover was there with him, his climax spilling hot into Oscar’s body as he sagged against Oscar’s back. They stayed that way for a long moment, panting against one another. Then Oscar toppled over to the side, taking Wamba with him. Wamba curled his body close around Oscar’s and clasped his arms around Oscar’s chest, not yet ready to relinquish the embrace.

A smile tugged at the corners of Oscar’s mouth as he closed his hands over Wamba’s. He laced his fingers between Wamba’s and hugged his lover’s arms tight to his body, perfectly pleased to languish in that sweat slicked contentment. If Oscar had his way, they would never need to be parted at all, but remain locked together for the rest of their days. It was unthinkable to him now that this could ever be taken away. He had come close to losing it, once, and the constant threat of discovery was a danger that Oscar had not always fully appreciated, though it lurked ever just beyond the carefully barred door. 

That thought led to another.

“Colin told me you’re reading through the church records again,” he said, into the quiet that had fallen over them. “What are you looking for?”

Wamba took a breath, and carefully pulled away from Oscar. “Nothing of consequence.”

Oscar regretted the loss immensely, but the question was too important to let Wamba dismiss it. He turned to face him, studying his calm expression as he said, “You asked Nicholas for the records from the archive. Did you not want me to know?”

“I wasn’t trying to hide anything from you, Oscar. It was an official request, sent by the king’s scribe.” Wamba’s shoulder lifted in a shrug. “His majesty tasked me with finding other possible sources of aid should the negotiation with France be unsuccessful.”

“Isn’t the church already providing for the hungry?”

“To an extent,” Wamba said. “I have a suspicion that they might be able to spare more resources than they have so far admitted to us. They have been successfully amassing their own wealth for decades, outside the purview of the crown. Bishop Langton has been a particular champion of this effort.”

“So you decided to go sniffing around his coffers?”

“I was trying to determine whether my supposition was correct. That’s all.”

Oscar reached out and laid his hand on Wamba’s jaw, tracing the long, white scar on his cheek with his thumb. “You knew it might be dangerous. That’s why you didn’t let Colin help, isn’t it?”

“It was just an idea,” Wamba said. “Nothing will come if it.”

“I would still prefer it if you didn’t court disaster quite so freely,” Oscar told him. “For my sake, if nothing else.”

Wamba’s mouth curved in a lazy smile. He took Oscar’s hand in his, turning it to place a kiss in the center of his palm. “Alright, Oscar. I won’t say any more of it, unless we truly have no other choice.”

“Thank you.” Oscar knew it was the best assurance he could expect Wamba to give. His stubborn lover would not forswear any course, no matter how grave the danger, simply to protect himself. It was Oscar’s duty to guard him now, from every enemy that would seek to do him harm.

Happily, it was Oscar’s duty also to love him, and it was to this that he returned his attention now, leaning close for a sweet kiss as he set his worries aside for another night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex.
> 
> I hadn’t planned on writing any smut this early in the story, but Nightflower called me mean for interrupting them in the last chapter and so here we are. XD


	4. Chapter 4

“I despise you.”

Oscar snorted a laugh, and did not bother to look up from his writing. “And a good day to you as well, Nicholas.”

“There is not a single thing good about it,” was Nicholas’s petulant retort, accompanied by the pointed thump of his body into the chair across from Oscar’s. “And I have had quite enough of you flaunting your revolting happiness in my presence, so you will desist at once with that ridiculous humming.”

Oscar set his quill aside and sat back in his chair to look at Nicholas. The young nobleman’s handsome features were pinched in a scowl, and his auburn curls seemed more of a frazzled tangle than their usual artful tousle. There was no denying that Nicholas was as clever as he proclaimed himself to be, but his brilliance was counterbalanced by a tendency toward impatience and the occasional fit of capricious pique.

Oscar was more than a match for his harmless temper, so he put a fatuous smile on his face and said, “Was I humming?”

“You most certainly were,” Nicholas said darkly, “and Cedric was nearly as insufferable at council this morning. How the pair of you manage to remain so idiotically besotted after all this time is an enduring mystery. I would never have given you leave to chase after him had I known this would be the result.”

“Yes, you would,” Oscar said with a smirk. “You scoff and moan, but really you’re just a horrible romantic at heart.”

Nicholas was also one of their staunchest allies, though he would hardly admit it except under extreme duress. Once Wamba’s wariness and resentment over the archivist’s attempted seduction of Oscar had been smoothed away, a friendship had formed between them, over the course of many a council meeting and official feast to which Oscar was not invited. This turn of events had not been especially surprising to Oscar, knowing the appreciation each had for a worthy wit against which to test his own.

But there was nothing of friendliness in the gray eyes that narrowed at Oscar, or the acid voice that said, “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“Oh,” Oscar said slowly, as he realized the cause of Nicholas’s frustration. “What happened to your friend? Lord Godwin, was it?”

Nicholas’s scowl darkened, and he looked away. “He has returned home to spend the winter at his estate. With his wife.”

“Ah. I see.”

In fact, he had precious little insight into the tangle of constantly shifting relationships that made up Nicholas’s private life. To hear Nicholas tell it, his was the more usual way of things among men of their particular persuasion, and Oscar’s singular devotion the aberration. Perhaps that was true for the nobility, but for all he blustered, Oscar could see how every fresh rejection saddened Nicholas. For it was always he who was rejected, not the other way around, the spark within him dampened a little more each time, until he grew defiant and went out to prove himself again.

“And anyway, he’s a tremendous bore,” Nicholas sniffed.

“What about your breakfast with the queen?” Oscar asked, offering what he hoped would be a more pleasant topic. “Was that not enjoyable?”

Nicholas’s laugh was dark. “How could it be, when I can hardly engage in any adult conversation for that little terror dogging my every step?”

“I’m not sure you’re supposed to refer to the king’s son that way,” Oscar said, biting down on his amusement. “I would think you would be pleased that little Prince Henry is so fond of you.”

“I suppose I should be grateful that someone cares to be in my company at all,” Nicholas grumbled, “but I hardly came all the way to London to be the official entertainer of royal brats.” 

“Weren’t you the one expounding upon the value of gaining royal favor?”

“At present, this particular royal offers me little advantage relative to the amount of aggravation he causes.”

“He is going to grow up, though,” Oscar said, reasonably.

“You suggest I should resign myself to the role of spinster nursemaid in the hope that he might keep me in my dotage?” Nicholas ran a frustrated hand through his hair, mussing it even further. “No, I am too young for celibacy. I left the church for a reason.”

“From what you’ve told me, the priesthood is not as celibate as all that.”

“You are absolutely right,” Nicholas said. “It is utterly intolerable that I should have more companionship in a monastery than in the king’s city.” He stood suddenly from his chair, an air of determination about him as he brushed down the sleeves of his heavily brocaded robe.

“What are you going to do?” Oscar asked him.

“I am going to find something worthy of my attention,” Nicholas said, one fine brow arched high, “and you are coming with me.”

“What?” Oscar waved at the book open on the table before him. “You insisted that I finish this today.”

“Only because you failed to do it yesterday.”

“I was searching for the church records!”

“At the request of your lover, who I note suffered no lack of your company as a result.” Nicholas pointed an accusing finger at Oscar. “You will finish that today, but for now your time is mine so you will do as I say and come with me. Consider it punishment for your smug satisfaction.”

Oscar shook his head, but he knew there would be no winning the argument. He closed the book and stood, following Nicholas out of the archive and down the corridor.

“Where are we going?”

Nicholas answered him by turning the corner and pushing open a small wooden door. A flurry of snowflakes burst into the corridor on a breath of icy air.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Oscar groaned, but Nicholas did not pause as he swept out onto the narrow rampart beyond. Oscar muttered a curse and followed, huddled with his arms crossed over his chest as he shuffled up beside Nicholas.

The archivist was resting on his elbows on the parapet, gazing down toward the training yard below. Oscar leaned over to get a view of what had so captured his attention. Through the fog of his own breath, he saw the garrison turned out for their daily training, sparring in pairs on the frozen dirt of the field. The clash and commotion almost resembled a battle from their lofty vantage, but for the towering figure of the guard captain Farren who marched among them barking instructions and corrections.

Oscar darted a glance at Nicholas, whose eyes roved over the men below with a gleam of intense interest. “Is this just an aesthetic exercise, or are you seriously thinking of trying to seduce one of the king’s soldiers?”

Nicholas shot Oscar a pitying look. “You don’t honestly believe that there’s not a single man among them who might be open to the idea, do you?”

“I’m only concerned that you might take a fist to the face, or worse, if you’re not careful.”

Nicholas smirked. “How many times must I tell you, Oscar? I have a sense for these things.”

“Yes, alright,” Oscar said wryly, “but just because a man has certain inclinations doesn’t mean he’s prepared to do anything about them.”

“You’re really worried about me,” Nicholas said, his smile growing wide. “That’s so very sweet.”

Oscar rolled his eyes heavenward. “My mistake. I thought the smug, polished types were more to your taste.”

Nicholas laughed, his long eyes narrowed to slits with genuine amusement. “I’m not above enjoying a bit of rough now and again. Sometimes a stout stave and a vigorous spirit are far more important than sparkling conversation.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Oscar snorted, a flush creeping into his cheeks despite himself at the bold picture Nicholas painted.

“I’m looking for a bit of fun,” Nicholas corrected him, “and even though I am far too good for any of them, I don’t mind taking one for a tumble if he can get the job done. Expediency, Oscar.”

“Excuse me, my lord,” called a voice behind them.

They both turned. Emma was standing in the doorway, looking between them.

“Yes, what is it?” Nicholas replied.

“I was actually hoping to speak to Oscar, my lord,” Emma said, dipping her head in a courtesy. Her eyes met Oscar’s. “Someone’s arrived to see you.”

“Are we quite finished here?” Oscar asked Nicholas.

“Yes, very well,” Nicholas waved a hand to dismiss him. “Don’t forget about the transcription, though.”

“I won’t,” Oscar said, “and you don’t forget what I said.”

“Don’t worry about me, Oscar,” Nicholas grinned at him. “I’ve decided that today is going to be a good day after all.”

Oscar shook his head, but returned the smile as he followed Emma into the corridor. He swept a scattering of stray snowflakes from his hair as they walked. “Thanks for the rescue. How did you find me?”

“The guard at the archive said you had come this way. What were you doing outside dressed like that?”

“Just one of his fancies,” Oscar said. “Have I told you he’s mad?”

“Often,” Emma laughed, “though I suspect that’s what you like best about him.”

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, only for it to immediately spring free again. She wore her riotous curls gathered loosely at her nape, freed from the constriction of the cap she had donned as a chambermaid. Wamba had never thought to give her any sort of uniform, only a wage more than generous enough to allow her to choose her own garments. She wore a blue dress laced at the sides over a linen shift, proper for a matron, but her eyes danced with the mischief of the girl she had been when they first met.

“Did you have a pleasant evening?” she asked innocently.

Heat began to creep slowly into Oscar’s cheeks. “Emma…”

“I’m just teasing!” she said, patting his arm with a smile. “I didn’t realize you were such a prude that I couldn’t even mention it.”

Oscar rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to will away his flush. “I wasn’t sure how you would feel about it, is all.”

“The same as I always have,” Emma said with a shrug of her small shoulders. “Nothing’s changed, as long as he hasn’t done anything to harm you.”

“You know he wouldn’t,” Oscar said quietly.

“You should think about putting a lock on the door, though.”

“So I’ve been telling him. I think he’s finally seen the sense of it, after last night, though I’m not relishing the battle I’ll have to have with Alard to accomplish it.”

“Leave that to me,” Emma said. “You get his lordship to write out the request, and I’ll talk to Gregory about it. Perhaps Alard doesn’t need to be consulted at all.”

“Thanks, Emma.” Oscar gave her a warm smile. “You don’t have to call him that all the time, you know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“All that lordship nonsense. You know he’s no such thing.” That was the one thing Wamba had insisted upon when he agreed to take Emma on, that she be made fully aware of his true standing and the risks inherent in it before she made her choice. In the end, it had not swayed her.

“That may be,” Emma said, “but he’s a far sight better than nearly all of them, and he’s paying my wages to boot. As long as that’s true, I’ll be giving him my respect, and making sure the castle servants do the same.”

Oscar chuckled, newly grateful to have been blessed with such a friend. “Thanks, Emma.”

They had reached the door of the library, and Oscar realized he had not even bothered to ask who it was who was waiting to meet him. Emma said nothing as she ushered him inside, only shooed him on and shut the door behind him, leaving him alone with the mysterious visitor.

It was a young man, standing close to the hearth and dressed in gray from top to toe. The smile on the pale face that greeted Oscar was unfamiliar, but a wave of recognition passed over him as he met pale blue eyes behind a shock of white blonde hair.

“Morris?”


	5. Chapter 5

Oscar was already across the room with arms thrown wide before he thought better of it. He paused, reconsidering his actions, but Morris opened his own arms and closed the distance, greeting Oscar with a brief, friendly hug.

“Morris! It’s really you!” Oscar laughed and thumped him amicably on the back.

“You said I should come and find you if I was ever in London,” Morris said, “so here I am.”

Oscar held him at arm’s length to look him over properly. Little remained of the starved, hunchbacked boy who had haunted the inn at Blackburn. Morris still spoke softly and his white blonde hair fell as ever across his eyes, but there was a confidence in his voice that had not been there before, and he stood nearly straight, with barely a hint of a hump to his stocky shoulders. He met Oscar’s eyes without hesitation.

“Look at you,” Oscar said, amazed. “I hardly recognized you.”

“While you look just the same as you ever did,” Morris noted.

“Save for the lack of daggers sticking out of me, you mean,” Oscar said with a laugh. He clapped Morris on the shoulder. “Come and sit down. Tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself.”

Morris took a seat on the couch at Oscar’s prompting, while Oscar perched on the front edge of the high-backed chair on the hearth. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and fingers laced loosely together, eager to hear Morris’s tale.

“Lord Percival took me with him to York after we left Blackburn, but I didn’t remain in his service for very long. I went to see the healer Miriam, on Cedric’s introduction. As he thought, she was able to provide me a cure for my back.”

“I can see that,” Oscar nodded approvingly. He had privately wondered just how much could possibly be done to straighten Morris’s spine, twisted as it had been by cruel confinement in a pillory on the heels of an undeserved flogging, though his doubt was proved happily unfounded by the evidence before him.

“It required me to spend many hours with her, for a number of months. To pass the time, she told me about her craft and she let me ask her questions. I wanted to learn more about healing, and she thought I might have a talent for it. She invited me to become her apprentice.”

“I remember Cedric saying something about that after he saw you,” Oscar said. “It’s quite remarkable that she was willing to teach a secret art of the Jews to one not of their faith. You must have quite an aptitude for it.”

“I don’t know that they’re trying to keep it secret, so much as many of our people condemn it for witchcraft and refuse to recognize its merit,” Morris said. “In three years, I’ve never seen Miriam turn away anyone who came to her for aid, no matter their faith.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Oscar agreed. He was familiar with the prejudices Londoners held toward the small community of Jews living in their midst, founded on rumor and propagated by the church. He had no reason to believe that suspicion would be any less in any other city, though no good that he could see had ever come of it. “What of your mother? Was Miriam able to heal her as well?”

Morris shook his head, a hint of a shadow in his expression for the first time. “There was nothing to be done for her. Age and illness had too much of a hold on her already.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“She was able to live out her final days in comfort, at least,” Morris said. “Lord Percival is a good man. He provided for her care until she passed.”

“That is very admirable,” Oscar agreed, “and I’m sure it gave her peace to know that you were assured a better life.”

“She had a hard life,” Morris said. “That’s true.”

“You both did,” Oscar said. “Have you been back to Blackburn?”

“Once, to lay my mother to rest beside my father.”

“How is the town? Did you see Rose?”

“She’s still there.” Morris’s smile returned. “She married, and she and her husband took over the inn. I think you would find it a much friendlier place now than when you were there last.”

“That’s good news,” Oscar said, “though I don’t know that I’ll be hurrying back all the same.”

Morris laughed softly. “I don’t blame you. After all, you barely escaped with your life.”

Oscar echoed the laugh, though the truth of those words was still an uncomfortable one. But for the keen eye and skilled arm of an unusually alert woodsman, he and Wamba might have both lost their lives in Blackburn. He had the scars as an ever present reminder of how close his brush with death had been, and still revisited that harrowing moment in his dreams on occasion, helpless as a sword hovered poised to strike him through. Some nights the arrow flew in time. Others it did not.

He pushed the memory away to ask, “So what is it that’s brought you to London at last?”

“I came with Miriam,” Morris said, “at Rachel’s request. There’s a fever spreading south of here, and some in London have started to fall ill. They want to lay in stores.”

“A fever? Now?” Oscar sighed. “As though the blight were not enough for one winter.”

“We bought up all the herbs we could on our way south. Willowbark and feverwort and a few other things.” Morris shifted in his seat. “I should be getting back to them, actually. There’s a lot of work still to be done.”

“Of course.” Oscar nodded, slapping his hands down on his knees. “I didn’t realize you were so busy, or I wouldn’t have kept you. I appreciate you coming here all the same.”

“This isn’t just a friendly visit, actually,” Morris admitted. He opened the satchel he carried to pull out two jars and set them on the table. “Rachel asked me to deliver these to you.”

“I meant to go and retrieve those,” Oscar said, with a pang of guilt. Emma had taken over most of his old responsibilities, but Oscar had insisted that he be the one to see to keeping Wamba’s medicines stocked. Perhaps it was old guilt for having failed so miserably at this task once, or simple reluctance to hand over such personal care of his lover to another. Either way, it was a responsibility that should not have been ignored.

“It was no trouble to bring them,” Morris said seriously. “He told me something about how he got those injuries, when he came to see Miriam at York. Does he need anything else?”

There was, in fact, one bottle that was growing dangerously close to empty. Oscar opened his mouth, hesitated, and finally said, “Not at the moment.”

Morris looked at him, then reached into the satchel again. He drew out a squat glass bottle of umber glass. “Not even this?”

Oscar’s face immediately began to heat. He laughed to cover his embarrassment. “So clearly you had some idea.”

“You weren’t taking any special pains to hide it,” Morris said, setting the bottle of oil down beside the two medicine jars.

“That was my mistake,” Oscar said, “and on that count, I assure you that I have learned my lesson.”

“I don’t know yet how long I’ll be in London, but if you need anything at all while I’m here, you’ve only to let me know. I owe you both a great debt.”

“You owe us nothing, Morris,” Oscar said. “The aid you provided was invaluable. What say we leave off this talk of debts and just agree to be friends, instead. I’m certain Cedric would say the same.”

Morris smiled. “Alright.”

There was a new warmth within Oscar that had nothing to do with embarrassment. For all their potential enemies, it was good to know that they also had friends. Wamba had been so completely alone when Oscar met him, far from his home and isolated by the secrets he was forced to protect. It still hurt to remember it, but Oscar was proud of the close circle of confidants they had built for themselves over the years. Emma and Colin, Farren and Thomas, Emmett and even Nicholas were friends to both of them now. He added Morris now to that number, those who knew the truth and loved them no less for it.

“You must come back and visit him when you have time. I know he would be very pleased to see you.”

“I will,” Morris said. He closed his satchel and stood.

Oscar walked with him to the door of the keep and saw him off with a smile, before he went to attend to his own neglected task. He worked quickly, eager for the arrival of evening, when he could share all he had learned with Wamba.


	6. Chapter 6

Oscar told Wamba about Morris’s visit over a quiet shared supper that evening. He was as pleased as Oscar had expected he would be, though his smile dimmed when Oscar revealed the reason why Morris had made the lengthy journey to London.

“I did not realize that news of the fever had spread as far north as York already,” Wamba said. “I only heard the first word of it this week, and his majesty cannot have known for much longer than that.”

“I suppose Rachel’s people have their own means of sharing such information.”

“That they do,” Wamba agreed thoughtfully.

“Do you think it’s going to be very bad?” Oscar asked him, a faint flicker of worry twisting in his gut. “Rachel would not have sent for Miriam’s help otherwise, would she?”

“It is almost certainly too early to tell,” Wamba replied. “From what I have heard, the illness has thus far been confined to the coastal villages south of here, though there is considerable concern that it could spread. Either Rachel has some knowledge of it that we do not possess, or she acts out of an abundance of prudence. I suspect the latter to be the case.”

Wamba traced the tip of his spoon through the dregs of thin stew in his bowl, but did not eat it. Oscar took the spoon from his hand and replaced it with their remaining crust of bread instead. “Do you think they might find a cure?”

“Perhaps,” Wamba said, “although I would not hold out much hope for one. Fevers of this sort are a thing to be survived, not cured.” He broke the bread in two and nibbled at the edge of one half. The other he handed back to Oscar.

“Is there nothing to be done?” Oscar asked, accepting the bread and stuffing the whole of it into his mouth.

“There are some on the king’s council who hold that we should close off the city before the illness can reach us.”

The bread was a painful lump in Oscar’s suddenly dry throat. “They want to abandon all those people to die? Without offering them any aid at all?”

“The suggestion is not without reason.” Wamba’s dark eyes met Oscar’s, calm and considering. “The winter has driven so many to seek refuge here already. The city is near to bursting with them. They make their beds even in the gutters and below the docks. A fever could spread quickly in such conditions. Hundreds might die.”

“What of the hundreds that are already dying?” Oscar insisted. “Can they not at least send food? Medicines?”

“Can we really justify squandering our stores of food, which are already in such meager supply, to sustain those whose deaths are surely only a matter of time? Would those resources not be better spent on the hale?”

Oscar stared at him, stunned to hear those callous words from his endlessly compassionate lover’s lips. Then Wamba’s mouth quirked in a sad little smile, and he reached out to lay his hand over Oscar’s.

“I do not agree with this thinking, Oscar, but you see, that is the sort of terrible calculation we are forced to perform now. With luck, the fever will spread no farther, and we will greet the spring largely unscathed. That is my hope.”

“And in the meantime?” Oscar asked, turning his hand to clasp Wamba’s in return.

“In the meantime, we do all we can to prepare, and try not to worry too much about what might happen until it does.”

As much as Oscar might have wished to put the danger of the fever from his mind, however, it seemed that he was not to be given leisure to forget. He entered the archive the following morning to discover Nicholas rooting about in the rear shelves like a pig searching for tubers. Oscar followed the sounds of his banging and swearing until he found the archivist heaving tattered tomes atop a growing tower at his side.

Oscar crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against a shelf, watching him puff and swipe his disheveled curls from his face. “Do I even want to ask what you’re doing back here?”

Nicholas’s head snapped around, his narrow gray glare pinning Oscar where he stood. “You!”

“Were you expecting someone else?”

“Where have you been?” Nicholas demanded, throwing another book down atop the pile. One of the wide sleeves of his blue velvet robes caught beneath it. He snarled another profanity and tugged it free, nearly toppling his work.

“What are you talking about?” Oscar snorted. “It’s barely dawn.”

“Is it?” Nicholas squinted up at one of the high, narrow windows. With the light on his face, Oscar could see what appeared to be faint smudges of exhaustion beneath his eyes.

“Are you alright?” Oscar asked, pushing off of the shelves to approach him. “How long have you been here?”

“Never mind that.” Nicholas waved a distracted hand at the tower of books he had constructed. “Now that you’re finally here, you can carry these to the table. When you’re done, go to the royal physician’s chambers and collect his records as well.”

“The physician?” Oscar gathered up an armful of books. “What do you need with his records?”

“We have been tasked with providing an estimate of how quickly this fever might spread, based on what has been recorded about similar events in the past. This will allow the king to decide the proper steps to take.”

Nicholas wove his way back through the shelves as he explained. Walking behind him, even with the books blocking his view, Oscar could see that he had an odd hitch in his step.

“What happened? Did you drop a book on your foot?”

“I most certainly did not,” Nicholas scoffed. “What a ridiculous thing to suggest.”

“Not a book, then, but something's the matter with you,” Oscar noted mildly, as he set his burden down on the table. “If I’m going to see the physician anyway, I can fetch you something for it. Just tell me what needs curing.”

“That is none of your business,” Nicholas told him, “and if you persist in this line of questioning, I promise you that you will know my wrath as you have never even imagined.”

To Oscar’s amazement, an undeniable blush was stealing into Nicholas’s face. He watched the archivist march stiffly over to his chair and fling himself down into it, only to jolt straight up again with a wince.

Oscar blinked stupidly at him, as he realized what ailed Nicholas. “Oh, I see.”

Nicholas turned his red face from Oscar, directing his glare at the far shelves. “If you dare say one word about it…”

The slow grin that stretched Oscar’s lips was entirely beyond his control. “So your mission yesterday was a success?”

“I am certain that you have already been able to determine as much,” Nicholas grumbled.

“And this latest conquest actually proved too much for you?” Oscar chuckled. “You, the great seducer of the king’s tower?”

“As it happens, these soldiers are uncommonly proportioned,” Nicholas admitted grudgingly, his blush growing even darker.

Oscar sat down in his own chair across from Nicholas, who still would not meet his eyes, and decided to have mercy on Nicholas’s bruised pride. He tilted his head as he regarded the archivist. “If you got what you were after, then why are you in such a foul mood?”

“That really is none of your concern."

“Alright," Oscar relented, "but my offer stands.”

Nicholas did not deign to reply, so Oscar let it drop and went to fetch the rest of the books the archivist had pulled down. Nicholas began to read them over while Oscar went to collect another set of volumes from the physician. Once they had all of the records spread out before them, they fell quickly into the familiar pattern of their work.

Oscar’s role was chiefly to make notes as Nicholas began to weave the strands connecting the various sources, holding a bewildering amount of information in his head as he sifted and sorted records spanning back nearly fifty years. It was an impressive feat, although the patterns he uncovered was not happy ones. Over the course of the morning and afternoon, a grim picture slowly took form in Oscar’s scribbled hand. Combined with what Morris and Wamba had told him, it did not bode well for the city escaping the spread of disease.

It was growing dark and the archive was bitterly cold when Nicholas snatched Oscar’s notes out from under his quill and began to read them over. Oscar stood, stretching out his aching back, and brought Nicholas a pair of candles. The archivist scratched a few notes in the spaces between Oscar’s words, then thrust the handful of parchment pages back against his chest.

“Write this out again. I’ll need a clean copy by morning.”

“Very well,” Oscar said, seating himself at the table once more with a faint sigh.

“And wear your best clothes tomorrow.”

Oscar paused with his quill hovering just over his inkwell. He looked up at Nicholas. “Why?”

Nicholas smirked at him. “Because you’re coming with me to report to the council.”


	7. Chapter 7

For all the years that Oscar had served as assistant to the king’s magistrate, and later his archivist, he had never before had any occasion to attend the king’s private council. In truth, he was uncertain what cause Nicholas had for taking him now, but he was intrigued enough by the prospect that he held his tongue and refrained from questioning Nicholas’s purpose.

That curiosity did nothing to prevent his heart from stumbling on a shiver of nerves as he stepped into the audience chamber on Nicholas’s heels. Pale winter sunlight filtered in through the high slit windows at the far end of the hall, melding with the light of the fire beneath to cast the intimidating hulk of the throne and the people around it into dark silhouettes, devoid of any hint of familiarity. The inhospitable scene transported Oscar back to his very first day in the tower, when he was alone and surrounded by the mocking court.

He pushed the memory away, and his nerves along with it, reminding himself that he was no longer without allies here. Not least of these was Nicholas, who led the way directly toward the throne. The shadows flanking it resolved as they drew near, revealing the faces of the Earl of Norfolk and the Earl of Chester, two of the king’s most trusted vassals. Ivanhoe was absent, home at Rotherwood for the winter, but there were another ten or so men scattered about the room, all of whom Oscar knew only by reputation. At the center of the council was the king himself, seated upon his throne and clad in a velvet coat lined with fur. He caught sight of them as they approached, and lifted a brow when his eyes landed on Oscar.

“What’s this?” Richard asked. “Have you been taken by a sudden infirmity of the arms, Nicholas, that you require your assistant to carry your scroll for you?”

Nicholas dipped a courtly bow before the throne, the arm bent across his middle refuting the king’s suggestion. “After my investigations yesterday, your majesty, I thought it best to acclimate him to the proceedings of the council, lest the encroaching fever strike me down and he be required to fill my post.”

Oscar frowned at him, only to be met with a glare and a pointed jerk of Nicholas’s head. Oscar quickly remembered his manners and offered his own obeisance, with a murmured, “Your majesty.”

He knew that the king had some minor fondness for him, manifested most often in his habit of needling Oscar for his own amusement, but it was Wamba for whom Richard held a genuine affection. He had long ago made clear the limits of his tolerance for Oscar, and the fate that would await him should he commit any trespass against his lover again.

Richard ignored him now, his attention sharp on Nicholas. “Is the view so dark from where you stand?”

“Indeed it is, sire,” Nicholas said, lowering his head in a grave nod. “Would you have my report?”

The king hummed and rubbed one hand through his sandy beard as he surveyed the hall. “We are missing a few men yet, and I would prefer not to discuss this matter too far without Maynard or Cedric.”

It was for this latter that Oscar had begun to surreptitiously search the audience chamber, to no avail, though he hardly had time to be disappointed before the door opened again. As though the king’s words had summoned him, Wamba entered the hall with the royal physician Maynard just a step behind him. There was a tightness about his expression that had not been present when Oscar had seen him off at the gate that morning.

It fell away when he lifted his eyes and saw Oscar, the hint of a surprised smile tilting the corner of his mouth, as though he had forgotten that Oscar might be there. Oscar immediately grinned back at him, helplessly charmed, until a sharp elbow jabbed him in the side and he flinched.

He turned from Wamba to scowl at Nicholas. “That hurt!”

“Mind yourself,” Nicholas hissed at him. “I did not bring you here to humiliate me.”

“I didn’t ask you to bring me at all,” Oscar returned in a furious whisper.

“If you are finished, gentlemen,” the king reprimanded them in tones of longsuffering boredom.

“Quite finished, sire,” Nicholas said primly.

“Then we are finally all present and prepared to proceed?” Richard said with a pointed look at the newcomers.

Wamba bowed. “Forgive me, your majesty. It was I who detained Maynard.”

Richard brushed away the apology with a wave. “No matter. You are in time to hear what Nicholas has discovered. If you please, Nicholas.”

“Of course, sire.” Nicholas stepped forward, taking the center of the hall with a subtle toss of his head. “As you commanded, I have in the brief time allotted to me made a study of all the available knowledge on past incidences of pestilence and plague, and my conclusions bode ill for your kingdom.”

Standing just behind him, Oscar struggled to keep his expression blank as he watched Nicholas perform. He held his scroll clasped tight in both hands and wondered idly whether Nicholas had forced him to copy it over purely out of spite, as he clearly had no use for it.

“Go on,” the king said.

“As one might expect,” Nicholas continued, “the existing records date back only these past fifty years, since your royal forbears first established rule, but even within that span, England has suffered a great many episodes of winter fever. How many was it again, Oscar?”

Oscar startled, shocked to be addressed. He stared at Nicholas, whose cool gray gaze looked back at him expectantly, then quickly cleared his throat.

“Sixteen.”

“Yes, sixteen,” Nicholas nodded. “Or in other words, one fever worthy of note every few years or so. A moderately common occurrence. However, my lords, it is important to remember that not all of these bring about equal numbers of dead. Which was the least fatal, Oscar?”

Oscar did not know why Nicholas was forcing him to speak when he knew the numbers just as well, but he dutifully answered, “The last. Three years ago. One in twenty who fell ill died.”

“And the worst?”

“One in five.”

There was a long moment, while Nicholas let the council consider that. The king held both hands steepled before him, his brow furrowed in thought. Oscar snuck a glance at Wamba, who was exchanging a meaningful look with the physician that Oscar could not decipher.

“That is all well and good, Nicholas,” Chester broke the silence at last, “but even you would surely not claim to know what will happen in future based upon records that could be no more than hysterical exaggerations.”

There was a chorus of murmured agreement from the hall. Nicholas rounded on Chester, his eyes narrowed and voice clipped as he replied, “The good earl must certainly be forgiven for holding less faith than I in my honorable predecessors, but fortune favors us such that we have no need to rely on records alone. The deadliest of these fevers is within our living memory. Is that not correct, Oscar?”

“Yes,” Oscar agreed. “It was just over fifteen years ago.”

Nicholas turned a full circle, looking at each man of the council. “And who among us was here in London at that time?”

He received no reply. Oscar looked around as well, with growing incredulity that not a single man on the council remembered the endless nightmare of that long-ago winter. Though, he supposed, the king had not yet returned from the Holy Land then, and perhaps some of the others had been there with him, as Ivanhoe had.

“Oscar.” Wamba’s quiet voice interrupted his thoughts.

Oscar looked at him.

“He means you.”

“Oh!” Oscar looked quickly between him and Nicholas, who treated Oscar to an unimpressed look.

“You were here, were you not?”

“Yes,” Oscar said, realizing suddenly why Nicholas had insisted upon his attendance, and why he had forced Oscar to give the report.

“Then you may confirm it for us,” Nicholas said. “Would you say that the records are exaggerated?”

“No,” Oscar replied at once. He shook off his shock, and took a breath. “Not at all. The fever killed my parents. It killed my uncle, and my friend’s mother. It killed our neighbors. Entire families.” He had been too young to understand all that was happening around him, but he remembered the pervading fear that fell like a pall over the city, the carts that creaked through the streets as they carried away the dead, and the stink of the abandoned corpses of those who had none left to mourn them. He remembered watching his brother collapse in tears over their parents’ sickbed.

Nicholas spoke again. “The reports from Brighton, from Hastings, and now from Horsham all tell of a similarly deadly disease.”

“All of those are a day or more to the south,” said another voice from the back of the hall. “We cannot be certain it will even reach London.”

“Can we not?” Nicholas asked. “How many of our sixteen fevers began in the north, Oscar?”

“Five,” Oscar replied.

“And how many in the south?”

“Three.”

“And of those, how many ultimately reached London?”

“All of them,” Oscar said. “They all came to London.”

“Your sums are flawed, lad,” Norfolk said. “If eight came to London, then eight did not.”

“They could not come here, my lord,” Oscar retorted, “because they began here.”

“Frankly,” Nicholas added, “I am amazed the city has been spared as long as it has.”

“All of this is no more than bald conjecture,” Chester insisted.

Oscar rolled his eyes, and turned to Nicholas to remark, loud enough to be overheard, “Why did we bother to do all that work if they’re too thickheaded to listen to you?”

Nicholas smirked, but Chester took one threatening step toward Oscar, his face growing ruddy.

“Alright,” the king said, breaking his contemplative silence at last to intervene. “While he makes it crudely, Oscar does have a point. Nicholas has the weight of evidence in his favor. Let us move beyond questioning him and turn our energies to actions.”

“I propose we close off the city at once,” said someone behind Oscar.

“That has been your solution from the beginning, Howden,” Norfolk said, “and it is no more useful now than it was three days ago. London is no Jerusalem that we can simply shut her doors and keep our foes at bay forever. If the pestilence reaches the gates, it reaches the city.”

“Better to close the gates than to sit idly and make no move to defend ourselves while we wait for it to come upon us,” Howden said.

“My lords,” Wamba interjected, voice carefully level, “I fear it may already be too late for that.”

Richard immediately turned the weight of his stare upon him. “Explain.”

Wamba stepped forward to stand beside Nicholas, facing the throne. “The reason I delayed Maynard, sire, was to ask him to confirm my suspicions.”

“What suspicions are those?”

“Two men were arrested at an inn near the Aldgate last night for causing a disturbance. The innkeeper believed them drunk and called the watch. They were brought before the tribunal this morning. What appeared at first glance to be intoxication was in fact a sort of delirium. They were returned to the cells, until Maynard could examine them.”

“Maynard?” the king turned to the physician.

“It appears to be a fever, sire,” Maynard said, rubbing one hand over his bald head. “By the signs, most likely the very one of which we have been speaking.”

“The two men are secure now?” Richard asked.

“They are,” Wamba nodded.

“Then see that they are kept apart from the other prisoners, until we know for certain what afflicts them.”

“The longer they remain, the greater the chance they can spread this malady to others,” Howden said. “Would sense not dictate that the danger be eliminated?”

“Do you propose to murder innocent men, my lord?” Nicholas asked him.

“Of course not,” Howden said, “but they should be removed from the castle. Let us close off the tower, at least.”

“No.” The king shook his head, his expression grim. “If they are in the cells, then we are already too late. They are here. The fever has arrived in London, and we must now reckon with it.”

Oscar looked down at his scroll, clenched in a white knuckled grip. No one spoke.


	8. Chapter 8

Oscar was dismissed once the council moved on to other matters, but his new awareness of the threat of the fever was not so easily banished. It continued to weigh on him, while he spent a few distracted hours attempting to sort the pile of records Nicholas had thrown into disarray. Finally, he abandoned the futile task and went to find Wamba instead.

He found him in the library, leaning down over Colin’s shoulder to shepherd him through what Oscar recognized as one of the more arcane books of manor law. It was a scene that Oscar would have found unremarkable on any other day, but the utter normality of it grated on his frayed nerves.

Wamba paused mid-word, one finger resting on a weathered page, to greet Oscar with a smile. “You’re back early. Did Nicholas run out of uses for you?”

“Even if he had, he’s very creative at coming up with new ones.” Oscar forced himself to return the smile, though it felt stiff and unnatural on his lips. “He never returned. When did the council end?”

Wamba’s stood straight, a puzzled tilt to his head. “An hour ago, at least.”

“He must have had something more important to do.” Oscar approached the table to look at the book. “Hello, Colin. What are you doing?”

“Reading about trial by combat,” Colin answered him, with a grin that seemed far too cheerful for the subject at hand.

“We were posed an interesting question of precedent today,” Wamba explained, “and Colin has taken it upon himself to examine whether the crown’s lay tribunal might possess the authority to annul a condemnation by trial in a baron’s court.” He smiled at Colin as he spoke, his voice warm with approval. Colin ducked his head to hide his blush, abashed as ever at his mentor’s praise, despite the regularity with which he received it.

“It sounds like you had a doubly unusual morning, then,” Oscar said. He added, more quietly, “Are you certain those men are ill?”

Wamba’s smile faded, the grave expression from the council creeping into its place. “There is little room for doubt, and the physician has none. Any hope we had of the city escaping the worst is gone. All we can do now is to protect as many lives as we can.”

“What did you decide?” Oscar asked.

“Yesterday I had proposed that we begin moving people out of the city, to havens further north, but it is too late for that now. Sending them out would likely do no more than to spread the disease ever further.” Wamba took a step back from the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “Some will leave anyway. His majesty plans to send his queen and their son to a secluded estate. Many of the remaining courtiers will follow.”

“How lucky for them that they have their castles to run to.” Oscar was unable to smother his bitterness, though he knew that there was nothing that the nobles could do to help even if they remained. “Is that what Nicholas plans to do?”

“He did not say.” The hint of a smirk quirked the corner of Wamba’s mouth. “Honestly, I suspect he might rather face a deadly plague than the prospect of an entire winter among his family.”

Colin chuckled at his book.

Wamba looked down at him, and reached out to tap the top of his head with a finger. “You’re not to repeat that.”

“What about you?” Oscar asked. “I’m sure that Ivanhoe would give you shelter at Rotherwood until spring.”

“I do not doubt it,” Wamba agreed, “but King Richard will remain in London, and I will have work to do here.”

“You mean the tribunal?”

“Among other things.”

The worry that had wormed its way into Oscar’s chest began to claw its way up his throat. “Can’t you close the tribunal? At least until the fever has passed?”

“It is not so simple as that, Oscar,” Wamba said.

“Why not?” Oscar demanded. “Surely there’s no dispute so pressing it cannot wait a few weeks.”

“And what of those awaiting judgment? Should they sit imprisoned, possibly unjustly, for the sake of fear?”

“So you would expose yourself to that danger for the sake of criminals?” Oscar’s voice was louder than he intended, sharp with his growing annoyance. Wamba faced him down with the look of ruthless calm that was a mask for his hurt, or his anger, and Oscar realized they stood on the brink of a full-blown argument.

Colin shifted uncomfortably where he sat between them. The movement snapped their fixed stare. Wamba looked at Colin, his face softening. He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Why don’t you take that with you tonight, Colin? We can discuss your thoughts in the morning.”

“Alright.” Colin gathered up the book and his other scattered papers with palpable relief. He knocked his shin on the table leg in his haste to remove himself from between them, but barely winced before he headed for the door. “Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, Oscar.”

“Goodnight,” Wamba replied, watching as he left.

The door closed, and they stood in silence for a long moment, not looking at one another. The distraction had snuffed out Oscar’s temper, leaving only a hollow sense of defeat.

“I can’t stop you if you want to keep the tribunal open,” he said, “but I can’t stop worrying about you either.”

“Oscar,” Wamba said quietly.

“I promised to protect you, but I don’t know how to protect you from this.” He kept his eyes deliberately averted, trying to ignore the way they burned. “The last one took my family. What if this one takes you?”

He heard Wamba move, but did not look at him until a gentle hand slid over his cheek and forced him to turn his face. Wamba’s expression was open, letting Oscar see his worry and his weariness. “I fear for you, too,” he said. “Constantly. If I could send you to safety I would, but I suspect you wouldn't agree to go alone.”

He offered no reassurance, but Oscar expected none. He drew Wamba to him instead, and wrapped him up in the tenuous safety of his arms. “I won’t go without you.”

“I know,” Wamba’s arms closed about him in return, “and I do not have it in me to run, Oscar. I never did.”

The same was apparently true of Nicholas, who Oscar discovered roosted within a tumbled nest of moldering manuscripts the following morning.

“I take it you’re not planning to flee the city?”

“Of course not,” Nicholas scoffed, not bothering to look up at him, “though it is gratifying to see that your account of the horrors that likely await us has spurred some observable action on the part of the council. Even if it is no more than the whole lot of them running off with tails tucked.”

“You could have warned me about that, you know,” Oscar said, “instead of setting me up to make a fool of myself in front of them.”

“I did no such thing.” Nicholas did look up then, with an affronted frown. “Surely you have some appreciation for my method.”

“What method is that?”

Nicholas held up an instructional finger. “First, I made you appear knowledgeable and worthy of their attention. Then I made you appear sympathetic. Only thus were you able to change their minds.”

Oscar frowned, puzzling this over. “Why did you need me to change their minds? Don’t they listen to you?”

“There is a distressing tendency amongst the nobility to reject outright those infelicitous realities which we cannot control.” Nicholas said. He looked back to his manuscript. “They would be more ready to accept a dragon I had conjured before them in the audience chamber than a pestilence they cannot simply command to do their bidding.”

“So you couldn’t have done it without me, is what you’re saying,” Oscar noted, deliberately smug.

“I suppose you deserve a modicum of praise,” Nicholas begrudgingly admitted, “for playing your part well.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” Oscar said. He waved a hand at the mess on the table. “Where did you get all of this?”

“I have been working on them in my chambers. I decided to bring them here this morning.”

“You brought them?” Oscar asked, raising a brow.

“Alright, a servant brought them,” Nicholas said, waving an impatient hand. “What difference does it make?”

“What are they?”

Nicholas sat back, his eyes lighting as he explained, “They are, in fact, six variations on a Saxon epic that appears to have roots in tales borrowed from the northern barbarians. It has taken me years to collect them, and I have only just begun a comparative study.”

“Is that how you plan to pass the winter?”

“As I will have few other distractions, with the court abandoned, I see no reason not to.”

There was something oddly determined about his expression. Oscar almost questioned it, but decided on levity instead as he remarked, “I don’t suppose you’ll be needing me, then.”

“What are you talking about?” Nicholas said. “You’re already behind, thanks to our little diversion with the council. Get to work updating the estate records.”

He pointed to the crate tucked between two tall shelves, where the notices of births and deaths other notable events of the noble families were collected while they waited for Oscar to handle them. Oscar’s good humor was whisked away like so much smoke when he saw that it held easily a dozen more scrolls than it had just a few days before.

“Where are they from?” he asked as he approached the wooden box, dreading the answer.

“Sussex, I believe,” Nicholas said, “and I would not dawdle, if I were you. There will no doubt be more tomorrow.”

Sussex, to the south, from where the fever now spread. Oscar took a deep breath, and reached for the first scroll.


	9. Chapter 9

The exodus began two days later.

It was due to his stubborn refusal to leave Wamba’s side even one moment sooner than necessary that Oscar was present to witness the departure of the king’s family. The queen’s retinue was gathered in the bailey when they walked out that morning, so they stopped to show their respect along with the rest of the castle as final preparations were made.

The train was at least thirty strong, from what Oscar could see, with an entire regiment of soldiers to guard their passage. In deference to the gentle upbringing of the queen and her ladies in waiting, half a dozen stout carriages had been prepared to carry them from the city. Queen Agnes stood before the open door to the grandest of these, wrapped in layers of fine furs against the cold with her dark hair tucked up beneath a modest caul. Her son was equally bundled, so that his rosy little face could just be spied peeking out from a nearly round ball of fur. The prince squirmed as he was lifted up and presented to King Richard to make his farewells.

The king took his son in his arms and laid a kiss upon his small cheek, then handed the child off into the waiting hands of his nurses within the carriage. Agnes watched all of this with dispassionate eyes, and stood stiff to receive her own parting kiss from the king. The sight of it was distinctly uncomfortable, so that Oscar was forced to looked away. He had heard the rumors, as all of them had, of the chill that strained the royal marriage. He had chosen not to give too much credence to what might be no more than gossip, aware that there was plenty of speculation about his own actions behind closed doors, but it was difficult to deny what could be seen so plain before him.

Agnes had a much warmer greeting for Nicholas, who approached as Richard retreated. He took her hand in his and placed a courtly kiss upon her gloved fingers. She smiled and said something to him that caused him to demur with a hand pressed to his chest and a deep bow. The queen tittered, and allowed him to help her up into the carriage.

“She should have a care for how openly she shows her favor,” Wamba murmured, for Oscar’s ears alone.

“Nicholas is her only friend here,” Oscar replied, “apart from her ladies.”

“That is the problem,” Wamba said. “Her refusal to learn English or at least take some few English ladies among her retinue fosters a great deal of resentment among the court. Nicholas is a conspicuous exception. It would be very difficult to defend him now, if someone should choose to make accusations of impropriety.”

“The king knows better,” Oscar felt compelled to point out, though he made the argument more for its own sake than from any real conviction. He knew that Wamba’s judgment in such matters was superior to his own.

“He does,” Wamba agreed, “but the truth is not an argument I would recommend deployed in this particular case.”

He quirked a small, private smile at Oscar. His lips were a little reddened still from the impassioned kisses Oscar had pressed upon them just before they left their chambers, reluctant to let him go. Oscar wished desperately to do so again, but limited himself to returning the smile instead.

At the far end of the bailey, the portcullis creaked into motion, distracting Oscar’s attention. The queen’s train began to move, and the gathered servants to disperse.

“There’s Thomas,” Wamba said. “I’ll be off.”

“Be careful,” Oscar told him.

“I will.” Wamba gave Oscar one last smile before he turned and went to join his guard.

Thomas was easy to locate, towering head and shoulders above the milling people. He was not much older than Oscar, but he had the advantage of being of far more imposing stature. He was one of very few whom Oscar trusted to defend Wamba as steadfastly as Oscar himself. That trust was all that kept him from insisting that he be allowed to accompany Wamba all the way to tribunal.

Thomas nodded to Wamba as he approached, with a barely perceptible smile softening his stern visage. Colin was there beside him as well, waiting with his usual armful of scrolls. Oscar watched them go with a sigh, until a flash of familiar blue above caught his eye. He looked up, surprised to see Emma’s diminutive form perched atop the parapet near the gate, flanked by the angular shape of Gregory.

“Are you going to stand about gawking all day?” Nicholas’s voice said behind him. “I sincerely doubt you’ve finished all of your work so early.”

“You’re one to talk,” Oscar scoffed, turning to him with one brow raised. “How much longer do you expect me to make your excuses while you disappear off at all hours?”

Nicholas’s behavior had grown increasingly erratic since that first curious morning, unexplained midday disappearances followed by whole nights when he eschewed his chambers in favor the archives, unmoved from the time when Oscar left him in the evenings until he returned the following morning.

“I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” Nicholas sniffed. He tossed his head and turned from Oscar to observe the stately departure of the queen’s train. This had the undeniably accidental effect of revealing a rosy bruise tucked up just beneath his ear. Oscar recognized its significance at once, having left more than a few such marks of his own upon his lover.

“Oh,” he chuckled, voice slow and dripping with smug delight. “I see how it is now.”

Nicholas shot him a narrow glare. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Even you can’t outsmart everyone all the time.” Oscar tapped his own neck where the bruise decorated Nicholas’s. “It’s your mysterious new friend who’s been stealing your attention, isn’t it?”

A startlingly swift flush rushed into Nicholas’s cheeks, though he did not allow it to lessen the force of the scowl that he turned on Oscar. “That is not in any conceivable measure your concern.”

“That’s not very fair,” Oscar noted smoothly, “seeing how you’ve taken no end of interest in my personal affairs.”

“That’s hardly the same thing,” Nicholas said. “You are answerable to me, and it is well within my rights to know what you are about when it might cause your work to suffer. The same is not true of you.”

“Have it your way, then. As you always do.” Oscar rolled his eyes for Nicholas’s benefit, but added more quietly, “I’m glad you haven’t done yourself any further injury.”

Nicholas blinked at him, openly abashed for one astonishing moment before he cleared his throat and waved a hand at Oscar. “That is quite enough of your cheek. Come along. Those reports won’t see to themselves.”

Oscar decided not to press him further, but neither did he follow. He looked back to the wall instead, where Emma and Gregory stood. “Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll be there in a moment.”

Nicholas frowned, but as usual he was willing to grant Oscar more leeway than his acerbic words would imply. “Don’t dally,” was all he said, before he turned to return to the keep.

Oscar went in the opposite direction, crossing the bailey to the barbican where he climbed the narrow stone stairs up to the parapet. Emma and Gregory were nestled in separate crenellations, both of them transfixed by whatever it was that lay on the other side of the wall.

“What’s going on?” Oscar asked as he approached. Neither of them glanced his way.

“Look at that, Oscar,” Emma said, standing on tiptoes to get a view as she pointed out over the wall.

“There are so many of them,” Gregory said. The voice of the steward’s son was faint, lacking the habitual sneer that he had the misfortune to inherit from his father. His equine face was very pale, beneath his shock of orange hair.

Oscar stepped up beside Emma, and leaned over her head to peer down to the open green beyond the moat. His breath caught, as he saw what had so captured their attention. A vast throng of drab, dirty people jostled and shouted as they pressed toward the castle gates, hands extended and faces raised in supplication. Some held children aloft. Facing off against them was a solid wall of guards, long pikes in their hands though they stood stiffly at attention and made no move to attack. The tail end of the queen's train could just be seen disappearing into the city, beset on all sides by desperate people. Suddenly the heavy guard afforded the retinue seemed much more reasonable.

“How long has it been like this?” Oscar asked.

“My father says there have been people sleeping out here for weeks,” Gregory said, “but it’s just in the last few days that they’ve begun to gather like this.”

“Where did they all come from?” Oscar asked. “What do they think they’re going to find here?”

“They’re fleeing the fever,” Gregory said. “I suppose they thought the king might give them shelter.”

“Instead, they’ve come for nothing, and trapped all of us in here,” Emma said.

“The king hasn’t forbidden anyone to leave, has he?” Oscar asked.

“Not yet,” Emma said, “but who would go out knowing what waited?”

The answer to that question caused a hot swell of panic to rise in Oscar’s throat. The tribunal lay on the far side of the castle, but Wamba had to traverse an equally open stretch of ground to reach it. He did not think even Thomas could overcome such a number alone.

“Not I.” Gregory stepped back from the wall, shaking himself and brushing down his doublet, as though to banish the alarming sight. “I spoke to my father, by the way,” he said to Oscar. “You’ll have your lock today.”

Oscar had completely forgotten about the lock.

“Thank you,” he said. He looked back to the crowd. “Though I don’t think any lock will be enough to keep us safe now.”


	10. Chapter 10

It was less than a week before Oscar's worst fears became his reality.

Every morning he reluctantly watched Wamba leave the safety of the castle, and was plagued by nameless dread until he welcomed Wamba home at night. Until the day when Colin came running to find him. The young scribe appeared without warning, stumbling into the archive and grabbing at the shelves to keep himself on his feet as he careened toward the table. Oscar took one look at him, wild eyed and disheveled, and dropped the box in his hands to catch Colin by his bony shoulders, halting him before he lost his balance entirely. His robe was torn, one sleeve hanging by bare stitches, and stained with earth where he must have fallen to his knees.

"What is it?" Oscar demanded. "What's happened?"

Colin heaved two panted breaths, and choked out, "I think you need to come."

Terror burst to life within Oscar's breast and flowed out to possess his limbs. He rattled Colin, tough in his urgency. "Is he alright?"

"I don't know," Colin wheezed. "He's still on his feet. Thomas wants to take him to see the physician, but he's refusing to go."

"What's wrong with him?"

Colin shook his head and wiped a hand across his face, his soiled palm leaving a streak of dirt across his cheek. "There was a man. He approached us when we left the tribunal. Cedric shouldn't have stopped. Thomas told him not to, but he did. Then somehow there were more of them and they were all around us. Someone managed to strike him."

That was all Oscar needed to hear. He turned Colin about by force and propelled him back through the shelves. Nicholas had not deigned to make an appearance that morning, so there was no need to make his excuses. "Where are they now?"

"Your chambers," Colin said, "unless Thomas was able to convince him to go to the physician."

Oscar spat a curse and released Colin as they emerged into the corridor. "Thomas should have just picked him up and carried him there."

"Thomas wouldn't do that."

"Then he should at least do his damned job and make sure things like this don't happen!"

Colin lengthened his stride to keep pace with Oscar's angry march, and did not reply. Oscar's indignation simmered hot, fueled by no small fear of what might await him. He did not slow as he approached the library, throwing the door open with such force that it hit the wall a shuddering blow and swung back toward him.

Three startled faces rose at his entrance, but he had attention only for one, pale beneath streaks of stark red. Wamba was seated in the tall-backed chair closest to the hearth. Thomas stood beside him, holding a shallow wooden bowl in his hands, while Emma pressed a clump of bloody linen to Wamba's brow.

Oscar strode quickly toward him, his fear disgorging a furious rebuke. "How could you be so careless?"

"Oscar!" Emma gasped, shock and disapproval in the glare she turned on Oscar.

Wamba peered at him from his one visible eye. "So that's what you were up to, Colin," he said wearily. "Really, this is all a lot of bother over nothing."

"Nothing?" Oscar snapped, waving an agitated hand at him. "You were attacked by that mob! I warned you that this would happen."

"Thomas got us out quickly enough."

"Thomas should never have let them near you in the first place," Oscar countered furiously. He scowled at the soldier, whose face remained impassive, then looked back to Wamba. "What were you doing talking to them at all?"

"It is my duty to listen to the people who come to the crown seeking help," Wamba said. "They're desperate, Oscar, but they don't mean to cause anyone any harm."

"How can you say that?" Oscar bellowed. "They nearly split your head open!"

Wamba squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, a tight little grimace on his face. "Please don't shout, Oscar," he said quietly. "You can scold me all you like later. Just not… not right now."

His words punctured Oscar's anger, and forced him to the uncomfortable awareness of what a fool he was making of himself, raging uselessly while his lover was in pain. He took a calming breath and closed the last few steps between them, reaching for the cloth clutched in Emma's hand. She treated him to a warning glare before she relinquished it and moved back to allow him to take her place.

Oscar carefully peeled the linen rag from Wamba's skin, revealing a jagged gash just at the edge of his hair. It bled sluggishly, but the reality of it was not nearly as terrible as Oscar had imagined. He set the cloth aside and retrieved a clean length from the bowl in Thomas's hands, heavy with cool water. He wrung it out, then knelt down between Wamba's feet and reached up to press it to his wound.

Wamba flinched away from his hand, a fleeting gesture that nevertheless cracked Oscar's heart.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'm a heel."

"You are," Wamba agreed. "Don't know why I put up with you."

He smiled, but from this close distance it was clear that his eyes were not quite focused on Oscar's face, and that was not all. Oscar frowned and pulled the cloth away. He placed the flat of his palm to Wamba's brow instead, then slid it down to cup his cheek.

"Why are you so hot?"

"All the excitement must have gotten to me." Wamba lifted one shoulder in a shrug, with a halfhearted grin.

Oscar did not return it. "What else? Do you have chills?"

"It's the dead of winter, Oscar," Wamba said. "Of course I'm cold."

Oscar put the cloth aside and pressed Wamba's hands between his own. They were trembling faintly. "Are you dizzy?"

"A little," Wamba admitted, "but I think that's to be expected after taking a hard knock."

Oscar pushed himself to his feet. "Right, that's it. We're going to see the physician."

"There's no need," Wamba said, with a groggy shake of his head. "He has plenty enough to keep him busy without bothering with me."

Oscar glared at him, trying to decide whether the value of having Wamba examined was worth the battle that would be required to get him there. "Fine," he said at last. "If you insist on being a stubborn mule about it, you can stay here, but you're at least going to bed."

"I still have work to do," Wamba protested.

"Colin can take care of it," Oscar said firmly. "Can't you, Colin?" He looked at the boy, who stood watching them with his hands clutched together before him.

Colin nodded vigorously. "Leave it to me, sir. I'll see that everything gets done."

"Then it's settled," Oscar said, his tone firm. "Let's clean you up and get you to bed."

Wamba's acquiescence to that was all the proof Oscar needed that he was in a poorer state than he had so far admitted to them. He sat quietly with drooping eyes while Oscar wiped the streaks of dried blood from his face and Emma secured a bandage around his wound. He insisted on walking to the bedchamber on his own feet, though he did not protest when Oscar took his elbow to steady him, nor when Oscar undressed him, slipped a warm woolen nightshirt over his head and guided him to the bed.

"Just give me a few hours," he murmured, as Oscar covered him with a mound of blankets and furs.

"Not likely," Oscar snorted. "You're going to stay here until morning."

Wamba chuckled, and snuck one arm from the warm cocoon Oscar had made for him to stroke a clumsy hand over his cheek. "Don't fret so, Oscar. I'm hardier than I look."

Oscar heart knocked against his ribs. He bent down to rest his brow against Wamba's, close and careful. "I know just how strong you are," he said softly, "and just how fragile."

Wamba's weary laugh swept across his mouth, so he tipped his face down and pressed their lips together in a tender kiss. Wamba pressed up into the touch for a moment, before his mouth fell abruptly lax beneath Oscar's. He was asleep. Oscar sat back to watch his sleeping face, his skin nearly as pale as the bandage but for the two spots of color that had appeared in his cheeks.

"You should not let him sleep too long," Thomas's voice came from the doorway. "A blow to the head could addle his brains, if you don't wake him once or twice before morning."

Oscar tore his eyes from Wamba to look at him, at the scar that sliced through Thomas's brow, skirting dangerously close to the corner of his eye. "I will."

Thomas looked back at him, silent for a long moment. Then his eyes dropped. "I'm sorry, Oscar. I should not have let the crowd come so close."

Oscar recalled his own shameful words, spoken in the heat of anger, and reflected that he was far past the age when he should be ruled so easily by his temper. "Don't blame yourself. He doesn't blame you, and neither do I. If he had even a scrap of a will to defend himself, you would not need to be so constantly on guard."

"I need to go tell my father what happened."

"I don't envy you that duty." Oscar gave him a weary smirk.

He stood and fetched Wamba's bloody robe from the floor, rolling in into a ball as he followed Thomas back into the library. Colin was helping Emma wipe up the last of the mess on the hearth, a mound of bloody rags piled into the bowl beside them.

"Thank you both," he said, awkward with embarrassment. "I apologize for losing my temper."

Emma looked him over critically for a moment, then nodded, silently accepting his apology. True friend that she was, she let the matter rest, and reached for the robe in his hands. "I'll see to that. Do you need anything else?"

"Some supper later wouldn't go amiss," he said. "I don't suppose you could convince the cooks to part with something a bit more appealing than gruel?"

"I'll do what I can." Her eyes flicked toward the bedchamber. "You just see that he rests."

"I will," Oscar promised.

She smiled, and tapped his arm with her small fist. "He's going to be fine, Oscar. You'll see. There's nothing to worry about."

He forced himself to return the smile, and tried to believe it.


	11. Chapter 11

There was surely something to worry about the following morning, when Wamba would not rouse. Sometime during the night, while Oscar slept, the tremor in Wamba's hands had overtaken his entire body, and the flush in his cheeks spread down across his chest, a creeping stain of fever. Oscar shook him by the shoulders, calling his name, but no sooner had Wamba's eyes opened to dark slits than they slid closed again, consciousness slipping from his weak grasp. His breaths came slow and labored, and Oscar knew that there was no time to waste with the physician.

He was shouting for Emma before he had even extracted himself from the damp linens, praying that she had already arrived. She burst in from the library while he was wrestling his tunic over his head.

"Oscar! What's wrong?"

Oscar yanked his sleeve onto his arm, waving a frantic hand at the bed. "He won't wake, and he can't breathe. I'm going to get someone who can help. Will you stay with him?"

Emma's stared at the bed, taking in Wamba's state. She asked, hushed, "Is it…?"

"I think so." The terror of that nauseating truth shuddered through Oscar. All the days he had spent fearing this very thing, and yet he was still so woefully unprepared to face the reality of it, unarmed against an enemy he could not see. His heart shuddered oddly in his chest, his lungs seized, and for a moment his vision blurred as the room seemed to whirl around him.

He stumbled, blind hand outstretched for something to brace against, until small hands found him and held him firm. The strength of that grip grounded him, stilling the mad tilt of the world. Emma's hazel eyes caught his, determination in every inch of her small features. "Keep calm, Oscar. You'll be of no use to him if you collapse. There's nothing you can do now but see that he has the help he needs. Go and get it. I'll be here. I won't leave him alone."

Oscar clasped a hand over hers on his arm, breathed in and then out in a shaky sigh. He nodded. "Thank you. I'll return as quickly as I can."

He went back to the bed, just for a moment, just long enough to assure himself that Wamba still breathed. He drew the blankets close around Wamba and stroked a hand across the matted tangle of his hair. He did not allow himself to think of it as a farewell as he snatched his coat from Emma's hand and flew out into the castle. The halls were empty, the few servants that lingered after the flight of the court tucked away from the cold and the pall of the fever. Oscar encountered no obstacle there.

The gates were another matter. They remained under heavy guard at all hours, barred against the waves of the desperate who approached day by day, seeking succor. Oscar paid the soldiers no mind, striding toward the gate with single-minded focus, but they were alert to his approach. By the time he reached the barbican, Farren was waiting for him, his stance wide and imposing and arms crossed across his massive chest.

"The king has ordered that the gates remain closed," were Farren's first words to Oscar. There was something uncommonly haggard about his stern face, a grimness that betrayed the toll the past month had taken on him.

Oscar had learned long ago that he was better served to take a prudent course in his dealings with the guard captain, but he had no capacity for tact today, and met Farren's heavy gaze with an unwavering stare of his own. "I need you to let me leave."

"On what business?"

"Wamba is ill."

Farren's face twisted, a flash of anguish before he schooled his features and lifted his chin. "My son told me what happened yesterday. Could it not be the effects of the attack?"

Oscar shook his head. "His wound did not cause this. Perhaps it weakened him enough that the fever could take him more easily, but I am certain he is ill."

"Then you should go and speak to Maynard. The royal physician is charged with the care of the people within these walls."

"You know as well as I do that Maynard can do nothing to remedy this," Oscar said. "Rachel knows him best, and she knows best how to cure this cursed illness."

"There is no cure," Farren said. "My men have scoured the city seeking just such knowledge as you believe her to possess. It is not to be found."

"Not a cure, then," Oscar snapped, "but something to help him, to put him at ease. Why are you keeping him from what he needs?"

"I will need the king's permission to open the gate."

"There's no time for that!" Oscar was horrified to feel hot pressure gathering at the backs of his eyes, his frustration at the breaking point. "Even now he suffers. Please, let me help him."

Farren closed his eyes, the pain on his face the clearest emotion Oscar had ever been able to read on him. Oscar wondered if even Farren's love for Wamba would not be enough to sway him from his duty, if Oscar would be forced to fight his way out and risk being unable to return.

Farren opened his eyes. He stepped aside.

Oscar did not hesitate. He shot ahead like a stone from a sling, throwing his thanks over his shoulder as he flew through the gate. There was a cry as he emerged, a whirling maelstrom of white faces and dirty hands blocking his path, but he could not let himself be distracted by any of them. He shoved his way through the press, across what had once been a pleasant green, to the city beyond. He ducked quickly from the main thoroughfare into the narrow side streets, and into a scene from his worst memories.

The sick and the dying huddled in whatever shelters they could find, half concealed beneath stairs or in the alleys between buildings. Some, he was certain, were already gone, but he did not stop to examine them. He was beset by a burning temptation to turn his steps toward his brother's home, to discover how his family fared, in this nightmare which he was only beginning to truly grasp, but his immediate mission was of greater urgency. He kept his eyes to the front and let his feet guide him along the familiar path to the Jewry.

The scene there was no better. The flight of narrow stairs that led up to Rachel's little apothecary were draped with despair. A woman in a brown cap sat curled over a deathly still bundle pressed to her breast, capped by a small tuft of dark hair on gray skin. A man was stretched prone with head in hands, weeping openly.

Oscar clenched his jaw and wound his way through this gauntlet of sorrow to leap up to the door. It was already open, wisps of smoke trailing out to disappear against the ashen sky. The low room was littered with figures as pitiful as those who lingered outside, drab shadows slumped against the walls. An elderly man lay on the table, choking on whatever was contained in the bowl Morris tipped against his lips. Rachel stood at her bench with her white hair bound back from her face in a knotted scarf and the sleeves of her black dress rolled up to her elbows. She ground a pestle down into a stone mortar with gnarled hands. A younger woman worked beside her, stripping leaves from a bundle of dried herbs. None of them acknowledged him.

"I need help."

Rachel spared him only a single narrow glance, her lined face betraying no surprise to see him there. "Nothing wrong with you."

"Not me," Oscar explained. "Wamba."

Rachel's hands never paused in their work. "Where is he? Bring him here and I will see him."

"Can you not carry what he needs?" Oscar asked. "I can get you into the castle. The guard captain knows I'm coming back. He'll open the gate for me."

"I go there, these people must wait." Rachel waved a stained hand at the pitiful figures that littered the apothecary. "You think he deserves more?"

Oscar's mouth opened, but he stalled before he could reply. Not once had it occurred to him that Rachel might refuse to help him. Not even as he walked through the streets and confronted for the first time the awful reality of how deeply the fever had dug its claws into the city. Not even then had he doubted that others would give Wamba's wellbeing precedence above all, as he did. He knew that Rachel spoke sense, but he could not accept defeat so easily. He could not return to Wamba empty handed.

"Please," he begged, forcing the words from his tightening throat. "Please help him. I'll do anything."

Her face was stone, unmoved by his pleading. A wave of helpless despair washed through him, from the top of his head down to his feet. Then another voice spoke.

"I'll go."

Oscar's head snapped around, hope piercing through him with the force of a bolt. Morris stood looking calmly past him, bracing the man on the table with one hand as his struggles slowed.

"You are needed here," Rachel said.

"I owe him a debt," Morris glanced to the other woman. "You can do without me for an hour. Can't you, Miriam?"

"That we can," Miriam said, brushing her long black hair back over her shoulder. "An hour, but no longer."

"I understand." Morris ducked down to scoop up a satchel from the floor, pulling bundles and bottles from the bench as Oscar watched with a lump in his throat.

"Morris," Oscar tried to speak, but relief had made him dumb.

Morris turned, slinging the satchel over his head, and nodded at Oscar. "Let's go."


	12. Chapter 12

Emma was waiting for them when they returned. She sat perched atop the chest at the foot of the bed, chewing anxiously on her lip, but leapt up at once when she saw them enter.

"Where have you been?" Her scowl snapped from Oscar to Morris and back again. "And what is he doing here? You said you were going to get help. I thought you meant the physician!"

"He's better than the physician," Oscar said as he strode past her to the bed, anxious to see how Wamba had fared in his absence. "Has there been any change?"

"He's still breathing," Emma reported, "although it sounds as though it pains him."

Oscar eased back the blankets that shrouded Wamba to confirm this for himself. Wamba shifted at the wash of cold air over his sweat damp skin, curling his limbs close to his body as he muttered words Oscar could not discern. He heaved a strangled breath, but it was enough for Oscar that he showed any signs of life at all.

"Let me see him." Morris was already at the bedside. He pulled vials and bunches of herbs from his small satchel and arranged them on the bed table. Oscar stepped aside to allow him to bend down close to Wamba.

Morris pressed a hand to Wamba's throat, then his brow. His touch was brisk and impersonal, pale eyes assessing. He tugged Wamba's shift aside and examined the bloody lace of rash that stained Wamba's chest, then reached up to tug away the bandage that swathed Wamba's wound.

Oscar's breath caught at the sight of it as it was uncovered, an ugly red maw within a patch of dark bruising. "Could that be the cause of this?"

"No." Morris probed the raised skin with deft fingers. "The wound is clean. It will heal, if he survives the fever."

The sober words sent Oscar's heart plunging into his boots. He clenched his shaking hands to fists and asked, "What can I do?"

Morris threw one hand out behind him. "Douse that fire."

"What?" Emma squeaked. "I just built it up. He won't stop shivering and his hands are like ice. He's freezing."

"He's not," Morris replied. "He only feels that way. The fever is causing him burn himself from within. He needs to be cooled, not heated further. It is a common mistake."

"How do we cool him?" Oscar asked.

"Bring water," Morris said. "Cold water for the bath. Snow would be better, if we had it, but there has been none."

"It almost never snows in London," Emma said.

"That is unfortunate." Morris turned his pale eyes to her. "You have a well, though?"

"Of course."

"Then water will do. Quickly."

Emma drew herself up, affront in every line of her features.

"Emma," Oscar murmured, "please."

Her eyes turned to him, and her shoulders fell.

"Alright. You'll have your water. I'll leave it in the corridor. Oscar, you can fetch it from there."

"Thank you."

Morris did not look up as she left, intent on shredding a handful of dried herbs into a small stone bowl. Oscar slipped into the space he had opened at the bedside and laid a hand on Wamba's head. His hair was damp, and his cheeks flushed, all evidence in support of what Morris had said, but Oscar's heart was leaden already with the thought of deliberately causing him hurt, even in the name of curing him.

"I noted you weren't dousing that other fellow in meltwater," he said to Morris.

"If you mean the man in the shop, my purpose was not to heal him. What I gave him was only to ease his pain."

"You mean," Oscar hesitated, horror sliding cold down his limbs as he breathed, "you mean you killed him?"

"No." Morris did not look up from his bowl. "The fever did that. I merely allowed him to pass without further suffering."

Oscar turned to stare at Morris's calm profile. He wondered what terrible things Morris must have witnessed, to speak with such calm calculation of ending a life.

Morris glanced at him sidelong. "He is not beyond saving," he said, with a nod toward Wamba, "if you will do as I say."

Yet even as Oscar listened, it seemed that the pauses between Wamba's breaths grew longer, each exhale bearing a more final depth than the last. Morris was right. There was no time to waste. A knock on the door informed him that water had arrived, so he pulled down the tub and went to fetch it. He poured the first bucket slowly across the grate to douse the fire. It sent a cloud of steam billowing out into the room, but once the flames were quenched the air quickly began to chill. The rest of the buckets he dumped into the bath, watching the water slop against the sides with shards of glassy ice littering its surface.

Morris, meanwhile, had finished his tearing and set to work grinding the herbs into a fine dust with a pestle. He tipped a glass vial and tapped out a few drops of amber liquid into the mixture. "Is it ready?"

"I think so." Oscar dipped his hand down into the water. His fingers quickly began to numb. "Are you certain about this?"

"I am."

"You had better be," Oscar said darkly.

He went to the bed and leaned down to scoop Wamba up into his grasp, sliding one arm around his shoulders and the other beneath his knees. He murmured an apology when Wamba groaned at the jostling. He hung limp from Oscar's arms, lacking the strength even to hold his head up, until the moment his foot touched the water.

He woke then, truly woke for the first time, his body gone taut and a gasp in his throat. His glassy bright eyes flew to Oscar's face, desperate hands clutching for him.

"It's alright," Oscar assured him, as he bent his knees and lowered Wamba down into the tub. "It will be alright."

Wamba clawed at his shoulders, hard enough to leave bruises, fighting with what strength remained to him to escape Oscar's hold, but his strength was quickly exhausted and Oscar was able to settle him down into the icy water. The look he turned upon Oscar, confusion and betrayal, made Oscar think that a knife to his guts must hurt less than causing such pain to the man he loved.

"Why?" Wamba croaked.

"I'm sorry." Oscar kissed his hair, catching both of Wamba's shaking hands in one of his own. "I'm so sorry. Please just trust me."

Wamba said nothing more, only hunched shivering in the tub with his sodden nightshirt clinging to skin that was rapidly turning from flushed to white. He refused to meet Oscar's eyes, so Oscar resigned himself to many future apologies and went to fetch another pair of buckets from the corridor. He poured them slowly into the bath, while Wamba tucked his feet up against his body, recoiling from the fresh cold.

"Here," Morris said, appearing beside him with bowl in hand. "Get him to drink this."

Oscar took the bowl and lifted it to his nose to give it a sniff. He recoiled at once from the smell of it, snorting out an involuntary sound of disgust. "What is this? What are you trying to do to him?"

"It will help him. Do you need to know more?"

Oscar looked between the bowl in his hand and his shrinking lover, and he quailed. "Why can't you do it?"

"He's more likely to refuse me than you," Morris said, "and I need to prepare the rest of the medicine."

Morris did not wait for Oscar's reply. He returned instead to his makeshift workbench, leaving Oscar with the bowl and yet another unwelcome task. He swallowed as he knelt down beside the tub and reached out to cup a hand over Wamba's cheek. Wamba turned his face the opposite way.

"I need you to drink this." Oscar turned him back, his hold gentle but implacable, and pressed the bowl to Wamba's lips.

Wamba's features wrinkled in disgust as the stench reached his nose. "I don't want to."

"You must," Oscar insisted.

The look that Wamba cast upon him then was even worse than the first. Every ounce of faith in Oscar was gone. Wamba looked upon him as a stranger, or worse, an enemy. Oscar did not relent, pressing the bowl against Wamba's mouth until he at last conceded to choke the noxious concoction down.

Oscar stayed beside him, stroking a wet cloth gently over his face and throat, even as he was ignored. Within minutes, Wamba's eyes began to droop. Oscar caught his head as he drooped, and guided him to rest safely on the edge of the tub. He was asleep, and his suffering was ended, at least for the moment. Oscar heaved himself wearily to his feet.

"You couldn't have put him to sleep before we put him in the bath?" he asked Morris.

"There was no time. I must return to Miriam, and I needed to make you enough of this before I left."

He stepped aside, revealing a neat line of squat clay jars lined up at the bedside. "What are they?"

"More of what you just gave him," Morris explained. "Put him in the bath again later, and again tomorrow, and every day until he stops sweating like that. You can give him the medicine first, so he won't suffer for it. You have enough for a week."

"A week?" It might as well have been an eternity, from where Oscar stood.

"He will go one way or the other within a week," Morris said. "They all do. But you should know which is more likely in another day or two."

"How long must he remain there?" Oscar said, waving a hand to Wamba.

"Not very long. There is danger in cooling him too far. Give him just a few minutes more."

"Alright."

"And take this," Morris said. "In case of the worst."

He held out a small glass vial, no larger than Oscar's thumb, with a clear liquid inside.

Oscar scowled. "If that's what I suspect, I don't want it."

"You might," Morris said, as calm as ever. "If he takes a turn for the worse."

Oscar stared at the vial, the weight of all it represented settling heavy upon him. He could not take it.

Morris turned and set it on the bed table instead, beside the medicines he had prepared. He slung his satchel around his body. "I will not be able to return, Oscar, but I will pray for him."

"Does that speed the cure?" Oscar asked wearily.

"I don't know," Morris admitted, "but I do not think it can hurt."

Oscar forced himself to set aside the anger that Morris did not deserve. He had done a great kindness for Wamba and for Oscar, when there were many other in equal need of his skills.

"Thank you, Morris," Oscar said, forcing a small smile. "What do I owe you?"

Morris returned the smile. "I thought we had agreed to speak no more of debts."

Oscar watched him leave, and locked the door behind him, then went at once to the tub to retrieve Wamba. He was lost in a dead sleep still, so Oscar shifted his limp limbs to peel his nightshirt from him. He wrapped Wamba in a bath sheet and carried him back to bed, then stood for a long moment simply staring at his lover.

There were things to be done, and questions to be answered, out in the castle. Oscar could not summon the will to bother with any of them. Exhausted, he stripped off his own soaked tunic and crawled into the bed. He curled close around Wamba, wrapping an arm around his waist. He stared over Wamba's shoulder at the bed table, the small vial that Morris had left there, and wondered if he could ever choose to use it. He decided that he should have asked Morris for a second dose, for if he chose to end Wamba's life he must surely end his own.

Wamba's breath hitched and rattled within him, setting Oscar on alert, before he lapsed once more into the rhythm of his drugged slumber. Oscar clutched him closer, enough that he could feel the slow movement of Wamba's breaths and the thrum of his heart. As terrible as those labored breaths were, he could not wish them away, for what replaced them might be something even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I am not a doctor and do not endorse ice baths as a cure for a fever.


	13. Chapter 13

Wamba's fever deepened that night, and brought with it his nightmares. He writhed and fought against the hands meant to soothe him, his muttered pleas rising to a hoarse shout when Oscar finally resorted to using his greater strength to overpower him. He held Wamba still to force another dose of noxious herbs into him, consigning him to unconsciousness once more. It was too late to send for fresh water, so Oscar opened the windows to allow the bitter winter air to invade the room while he deposited his limp lover into the tepid bath that he had not bothered to empty. He sat beside the tub and held Wamba's slack hand in his, stroking a penitent thumb over the bruises he had left on Wamba's wrist, while frosty tears itched down his cheeks.

The days that followed bled into one exhausted purgatory, measured out only by the slowly dwindling cache of potions on the bed table. Oscar hardly slept, passed the quiet hours instead counting Wamba's breaths, terrified that any one might be his last. Nights slid sluggishly into days spent avoiding the questions in Emma's worried eyes, too frightening to acknowledge while Oscar's whole world teetered on such a delicate edge. The vial that Morris had left, too, lurked ever at the edges of his awareness. It was a testament to his cowardice that he could not bring himself to dispose of it, but let it linger there, a last recourse at the end of the inexorable march down the neat row of medicine jars, looming ever closer.

Emma was the only other person he saw during those terrible days. It was she who brought the cups of broth that Oscar attempted to force into Wamba with little success, and she who prepared the tortuously cold baths that Oscar continued to inflict on his lover. It was she who made his excuses to Nicholas, or so he assumed, for the archivist had not come looking for him. He was not important. Nothing was important except remaining at Wamba's side. Now that Morris had made it plain to him, he saw how the illness burned Wamba from within, searing crimson across his skin even as it sapped his strength to feed its own ravenous appetite.

Then, miraculously, the tide of that battle turned. The stain began to recede, fading back over Wamba's chest and retreating across his collarbones. Oscar could hardly believe his eyes, prodded at Wamba's skin wondering whether his exhaustion was causing him to see visions of what he most desired, but it was true. Wamba's breathing eased, grew deep and restful, and Oscar broke down weeping with relief to hear it. He crawled up onto the tumbled bed and laid his weary body down beside Wamba, staring at his lover's drawn features until darkness rose and took him.

The next thing Oscar knew was the sensation of a hand sliding through his hair. He cracked open leaden lids, and met a pair of dark eyes looking back at him.

Oscar blinked, and blinked again. He willed his fogged mind to clear, trying to remember why this seemed so remarkable. Realization arrived in a rush, and he bolted up onto his hands. Wamba's hand flopped to the bed, lacking the strength to follow, but his eyes were open and clear and fixed on Oscar.

"You're awake!"

"That is debatable." The corner of Wamba's mouth twitched in a feeble approximation of his usual teasing smile, and his voice was rough and weak. Oscar could not remember witnessing anything so wonderful.

Giddy with rising joy, he swooped down and laid a kiss on Wamba's mouth.

"Hm," Wamba licked his lips huffed out a weak chuckle as he withdrew. "That cannot have been pleasant."

He pushed his matted hair from his eyes with one bone white hand. His lips were cracked, his breath musty with the remnants of the awful potions, his skin streaked with stale sweat. Oscar kissed him again.

"I don't care," he said. "All that matters is that I can still do this."

Wamba's face softened. "Are you well, Oscar?"

"I wasn't," Oscar told him, "but I am now. How do you feel?"

"As though I've been trampled by a whole herd of sheep," Wamba said, with just a shadow of a smile.

Oscar burst out laughing, grin stretching wide at the shared memory. "You know I could never let that happen."

"I know." Wamba's smile faltered, and his eyes dropped to Oscar's hand where it rested on the bed between them. "I apologize for putting you through this, Oscar. It seems you had the right of things all along."

Oscar's guts twisted. Wamba's contrition never sat well with him, and it spawned a particularly unbearable discomfort now, with the memory of his lover's pain so fresh.

"I was bound to be right at least once or twice, if you kept me around long enough," Oscar said lightly. "What do you remember?"

"Very little," Wamba said, and Oscar dared to hope that the worst of the past week was lost forever to the fog of fever. Wamba's eyes lifted again. "I remember you. I know you have been here this whole time. Thank you for that."

"Where else would I be?" Oscar caught Wamba's hand in his to lace their fingers together, and pressed kisses into the hollows between his knuckles. "There's still work to be done to get you back on your feet. What do you think? Can you eat?"

"I'm quite hungry, actually," Wamba told him, then blinked as though startled to hear those words from his own mouth.

Oscar laughed. "It truly is a day of miracles."

That brought the smile back to Wamba's face, stronger than before. "What I think I would like most, though," he said, "is a bath."

"Of course." Oscar was pushing himself up from the bed before he had finished speaking, but Wamba's hand caught his wrist. Oscar paused to look back at him expectantly.

"A warm one, if you please."

Oscar released a slow breath, letting the gently admitted truth settle over him. Wamba did remember, but Oscar was forgiven for his necessary cruelty. He bent back down to knock his brow to Wamba's. "Anything you wish."

Wamba's hand slid across Oscar's cheek to clasp the back of his neck, with a tenderness that set Oscar's heart tumbling within him. It was a long moment before he could pull away and go in search of his boots.

"Where has Emma gotten to?" he mused aloud. "She's usually here by this time."

"She was here," Wamba said behind him. "I told her to take a few days for herself."

"Of course you did." Oscar shook his head. "That was generous of you."

"This has not been easy for her either."

Oscar plopped down on the edge of the bed, at Wamba's back, and leaned over him to give him a narrow look. "I think you just like having me wait on you hand and foot."

Wamba turned to lie on his back, his narrow body framed between Oscar's hip and the hand braced on the bed. The smile he gave to Oscar was sweet. "I do not deny that this is a happy consequence."

Oscar snorted and pressed one more kiss to Wamba's brow. Then he forced himself up to gather the tools he needed to see his lover restored to himself. In truth, he did not mind the chance to be alone with Wamba and see to his care personally.

The bath was first, poured out steaming hot before a roaring fire and liberally dosed with Rachel's powders. Wamba insisted on tottering to it on his own unsteady legs, but he did not refuse Oscar's assistance. He sank into the heat with a low moan. Oscar left him to soak while he stripped the bed of its soiled linens and traded them for fresh. He found a clean, warm shift for Wamba as well, and laid it to one side while he went to attend to his drowsy lover.

Wamba had succeeded in washing his own body, but he lacked the strength to raise his arms above his head, so Oscar fetched a cup and used it to carefully wet his head. He worked a handful of soft soap into Wamba's hair, letting his fingers caress and linger more than was strictly necessary, except to satisfy his own protective urges. It was only once Wamba's eyes began to droop in earnest that Oscar hurried to finish his task, lest he miss the chance to make the most of Wamba's miraculous appetite.

Watching him finish an entire bowl of stew without any prodding was satisfying, but it was only once Oscar had Wamba on the couch in the library, swathed in a heavy robe with a mug of honeyed milk in his hands, that Oscar began to feel something approaching peace. He sipped at his own mug and stared at Wamba's profile as he contemplated the fire.

"I should speak to the king."

"Not today," Oscar said at once. "You still need time to rest."

Wamba considered this, then nodded. "You're right, although I should at least send a message to let him know that I am recovered. And I should ask about collecting the new reports. There must be much that I have missed."

"There were some letters that came for you, actually," Oscar said. Emma had mentioned them to him, though they had been quickly forgotten at the time.

He stood and went to examine the books and papers on the table and found a neat stack of folded letters sitting squarely before Wamba's chair. He scooped them up and carried them to back to the couch. "That should be a start."

"Thank you, Oscar." Wamba had already begun leafing through the papers. He pulled one from the bunch and cracked open the seal.

"If you want to send a note to the king once you've read them, I can write it for you." Oscar returned to the table to fetch a few sheets of blank parchment, along with a quill and ink. "And don't worry about my handwriting offending the king. Nicholas has made it his own personal crusade to make a proper scribe of me."

Wamba did not reply. Oscar turned back, concerned, and stopped still when he caught sight of Wamba's face. Wamba held a single sheet of parchment in one shaking hand. The other was pressed tight to his mouth, and tears streamed from his eyes.

"Oh, no." A chill raced through Oscar. He asked, dreading the answer, "Who?"

Wamba's eyes turned to him, red and drowning. "Colin."


	14. Chapter 14

“I must go and see him.”

Wamba swiped at his cheeks, then braced one shaking hand on the arm of the couch to push himself to his feet. Oscar cast the quill and parchment quickly aside, striding back toward him. He leapt forward just in time to catch Wamba as he swayed and began to topple forward. He tugged Wamba close to brace him against his own body, turning his hasty grip into a firmer hold around his back.

“It’s too soon,” he said. “You need to regain your strength first.”

Wamba forced his knees to steady, standing straight as he turned his wan face up to Oscar. His gaze was wide and lost, his voice weak. “It’s Colin.”

Just those two short words, but they hit Oscar with the force of a mace. The bond between Wamba and his apprentice was a rare one, close enough that Oscar had even suffered a resentful jealousy of it at times, in earlier days before he learned what it meant to fully trust his lover. What had begun as an admiration approaching adoration on the part of the young scribe had matured over time into a mutual respect and affection that was unique among Wamba’s friendships.

“I know,” Oscar assured him gently. He reached for the parchment still clutched in Wamba’s hand, prying it from his fingers to cast a quick glance over the scant information it contained. “I know, but there’s no way to tell how long ago this was delivered. It may already be too late.”

Fresh tears welled in Wamba’s eyes, cast loose as he blinked dumbly at Oscar, and Oscar knew that this was a battle he had no will to fight. Oscar could force him to remain, but Colin was dear to Wamba, and just as Oscar had been unable to sit idle while Wamba suffered so he could not fault Wamba for feeling the same about Colin.

“What if I go instead?” he offered. “I can bring you news.”

“I can’t wait here,” Wamba said. “I can’t, Oscar.” He clutched at the back of Oscar’s tunic, restless fingers pressing his urgency into Oscar’s flesh.

“Alright,” Oscar conceded. He could carry Wamba if it became necessary. “We’ll go together.”

Oscar helped Wamba to don his boots, and at Wamba’s urging packed the remaining doses of medicine that he had not consumed into a hastily emptied crate. Oscar tucked the small case beneath one arm and offered the other to Wamba to lean on as they made their careful way out into the corridor.

The scribes were housed with the pages, squires, and other skilled apprentices in a row of individual cells not far from the steward’s quarters. The shortest path to reach it required navigating down two sets of perilously spiraled stairs. It was slow going, but Wamba made no comment, shuffling determinedly on even as more and more of his weight came gradually to rest on Oscar’s arm.

A few small beads of sweat dotted his temple by the time they stood at last at the head of the apprentice’s quarters. There was no need to question how he felt, so Oscar asked only, “Do you know which one is Colin’s?”

“That one there.” Wamba raised a hand to point down the corridor. His fingers trembled, whether from exhaustion or the fear of what they might discover Oscar could not say.

He stepped forward, forcing Oscar to follow or relinquish his hold. A faint light shone below the door, growing clearer as they approached, an encouraging sign that someone still remained within. Oscar tapped a knock against the door, dislodging Wamba’s hand that was clutched around his wrist as he did.

There was a murmur of muffled words, a brief shuffle, and the door opened. The face of the man that stood there was unfamiliar to Oscar. He appeared to be of middle years, with a sandy beard that was in the midst of being overtaken by gray. He looked between them with a faint frown. Behind him, a young woman in a woolen cap stood blocking their view of the room’s small cot.

“Who are you?” the man asked.

“Sir,” Wamba said, “I…”

He faltered, but the young woman spoke instead. “You’re Cedric, aren’t you?”

Wamba blinked at her. He nodded. “I am.”

“Cedric?” The man before them straightened and released his clenched hold the door. Wamba’s body drew stiff against Oscar, as though he braced himself for a blow. Instead, the extended hand seized his in warm welcome. “Of course. I should have known. Colin has told us so much about you, I feel as though I know you.”

“You are his father, then,” Wamba said.

“Adam,” Colin’s father introduced himself, “and this is my daughter Matilda.”

“Colin has told me about you as well,” Wamba said weakly. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, though I regret with all my heart that it must be under such circumstances. How does he fare?”

Matilda moved aside to allow them to at last view the bed. Colin was sprawled across the blanket, flushed and breathing hard as he fought the grip of the fever. Wamba took one trembling step toward him, face draining of what little color remained in his cheeks.

“Is there a place he can sit?” Oscar asked.

“Of course. Come inside.” Adam stepped back, allowing Oscar to guide Wamba to the stool at the bedside.

“How long since the fever took him?” Oscar asked Adam.

“We received word yesterday. We came at once.”

“You had no trouble to enter the city? The castle?” Oscar remembered the desperate throng that he had faced on his way to secure aid for Wamba.

“None, though we had been warned to expect some. The city is much quieted.”

“So the fever is passing?”

“I feel that perhaps the worst is past.” Adam looked at his son. “Though not for him.”

“This was my doing,” Wamba said, bowed beneath the weight of guilt that had settled over him. “I put him in danger. There is no apology I can offer that will atone for this in any measure.”

“It is clear enough that you were struck down as well,” Adam said. “If there is any reason at all to how these things are decided, it is for God alone to know.”

His pronouncement did little to reassure Wamba, who pressed his fist to his mouth and did not reply. Unable to comfort him as he wished, Oscar looked about the room instead. A pack was open on the floor at Matilda’s feet, a cloak slung over the lip of the open chest behind the door.

“Are you leaving?” he asked.

“Yes,” Matilda replied. “We came to take him home.”

Oscar glanced back at Colin, so clearly trapped within the fever’s grasp. “Do you think it’s wise for him to travel now?”

“Luton is less than a day from here. We will have him under his mother’s care by nightfall.” Adam looked at his son as he spoke, a serenity to the pain plain in his expression. “If God has decided to take him from us, then at least he should pass among his family.”

Wamba straightened his back, visibly casting aside his drifting thoughts. “I think he would be glad of that as well.”

Oscar suddenly recalled the crate he carried. It rattled as he shifted it from beneath his elbow to offer it to Matilda. “Here. You should take this with you. It will help.”

She took the box from his hands, studying its contents. “Is this medicine? I thought there was no cure.”

“It’s not a cure, exactly,” he explained, “but it will give him peaceful rest, and strength to fight. I suggest you use one before you take him up.”

“Alright.” Matilda looked up. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Oscar.”

“Thank you, then, Oscar.”

Wamba stood, reaching out one hand to Oscar, who quickly took it. “Is there anything else you need?” he asked Adam. “Anything I can give, you have only to name it.”

“You have already done more for him than a humble family such as ours could have expected,” Adam said. “Whatever comes, we will not forget it.”

A rogue tear slipped down Wamba’s cheek, but he met Adam’s eyes squarely. “Please tell him that when he is ready his place will be waiting for him. We will be waiting for him.”

“I will.”

By the time they returned to their chambers, Wamba’s strength was exhausted. Oscar practically had to drag him the last few steps to the couch and deposit him there, where he stared listlessly at the fire.

“How much longer can this go on?” he murmured.

“I don’t know.” Oscar knelt on the rug at Wamba’s feet and began to ease his boots off. “We’ll have to face our challenges one day at a time, as we’ve always done.”

“What am I going to do?”

“Without Colin, you mean?” Oscar asked.

Wamba nodded.

Oscar sat back on his heels and looked up at him. “I’ll help.”

Wamba’s gaze finally shifted, uncertain eyes settling on Oscar. “In the tribunal?”

“Here, there,” Oscar shrugged. “Whatever you need.”

“You have your own responsibilities,” Wamba reminded him. “I can’t ask you to give them up.”

“I’ll talk to Nicholas.” Oscar forced a wry smile to his face, stiff as it felt. “He’s probably replaced me already anyway.”

“Oscar,” Wamba breathed.

He reached out for Oscar, and Oscar moved quickly into his embrace, kneeling up to close his arms around his lover’s grief and illness ravaged form. “You are my first responsibility. You always will be.”

He wished that he could carve off a piece of his own strength and give it to his lover, speed him along his recovery. As no such magic was available to him, he decided to content himself with what he could do, and pray that the fever was done wreaking its destruction upon them.


	15. Chapter 15

Oscar managed to keep Wamba to their chambers for one more day, though he made no effort to stop him spending the greater part of his waking hours reading through the pile of papers that had accumulated while he was ill. He understood Wamba’s urge to throw himself into his work, to distract from the worry that Colin’s state had caused.

The following day Wamba insisted on going to speak with the king, and Oscar did not object. He accompanied Wamba as far as the king’s private study, where he at least relinquished his guard, along with the armload of scrolls that Wamba had wished to take along with him. Wamba’s palms brushed over the backs of Oscar’s hands as he accepted them, the subtlest of caresses.

“Thank you, Oscar.”

“Send for me when you’re ready to go back.”

“I haven’t forgotten the way,” Wamba said, with just the faintest edge of a smile. “I’ll see you later.”

Oscar swallowed down his discomfort, recognizing the gentle rebuke for what it was. He was well aware that he had allowed his protective instincts to run unchecked for long enough. He could not continue to hover over Wamba forever. “Alright.”

Wamba gave him a true smile before he turned to make his slow way up the final flight of stairs to the king’s door alone. Left without any further reason to delay, Oscar pointed his feet in the direction of the archives. It was not so very many days since he had last walked the familiar path, but the banality of it felt strange to him, as though eons had passed between that last journey and this. The comfortable patterns of their lives had been thrown into such disarray, Oscar could not imagine when they might recapture that balance again.

So distracted was he by these thoughts that he hardly looked up as he passed the guard who stood before the archives, muttering a perfunctory, “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Oscar.”

Oscar paused with one hand on the door, frowning at the weathered wood as he tried to determine what was so unusual about the greeting. He turned his head to look up, and then up even farther, until he met a familiar pair of green eyes. “Thomas?”

Thomas did not bother to confirm this obvious truth. Oscar stepped back to face him.

“What are you doing here?”

“Guarding the door,” Thomas said. His scarred brow lifted just slightly, though it communicated clearly enough his amusement.

“Did your father make you do this?” Oscar demanded, guilt sprouting cold on his skin. “Is this a punishment? What happened to Wamba wasn’t your fault. I can go and tell him that.”

“No, Oscar,” Thomas said.

“You’re right,” Oscar nodded. “Better if I have Wamba tell him himself.”

“Oscar.” One of Thomas’s large hands dropped down onto his shoulder, stopping him short.

“What?”

“It’s not a punishment. I asked for the post.”

“Really? Why?” Even Oscar knew that standing guard over the king’s dusty record books was vastly inferior to Thomas’s regular duties.

“The tribunal’s closed,” Thomas said simply, “and it’s cold outside.”

“Cold. Right.” For someone who had spent years on the northern border, it was a strange justification, but Oscar decided to let it go. “If you say so.”

Thomas returned his hand to his side.

“You’ll be with him when he goes back, though, won’t you?” Oscar asked. He could not imagine sending Wamba out without Thomas to protect him, whether Oscar was there or not.

“Of course.”

“Then by all means, enjoy staring at the wall in the meantime.” Oscar smirked at him as he finally pushed open the door and entered the archives.

“Don’t you dare come in here!” Nicholas’s irate dictum echoed over the clatter of the door as it closed.

Oscar sighed, hands already raised in a placating gesture as he emerged from between the shelves to approach the table. Nicholas was nowhere to be seen, so Oscar spoke to the far side of the room instead.

“I know you’re probably not very pleased with me.”

That was as far as he got before Nicholas’s tousled head popped around the edge of the nearest shelf.

“Oh,” he said flatly. “It’s you.”

“Yes.” Oscar dipped his head in apology. “I should have sent word earlier.”

Nicholas swept around to the table, waving off the apology with a dismissive hand. “I had word from your servant.”

“She’s not my servant,” Oscar reminded him, even as he decided he would be buying Emma some very nice gifts in the near future.

“Cedric’s servant, then,” Nicholas said tartly. “I assume your lover is recovering, as you are standing upright and not shattered into pieces on the floor.”

“He’s on his feet again.”

“Good,” Nicholas said. “Then you will no doubt be prepared to dedicate all of your energies to sorting out the mess this bedamned plague has made of our records.”

Oscar rubbed a sheepish hand against the back of his neck. “Actually, I was hoping to ask one more favor.”

Nicholas cast his eyes heavenward, shaking his head. “Of course. How foolish of me. Pray tell, what further indulgence may I grant you?”

“Cedric’s scribe has fallen ill.”

The irritation fell from Nicholas’s face. “Colin?”

“Yes, Colin.” Oscar said, surprised that Nicholas had remembered the name. He was notoriously bad at recalling the names of those he considered below his notice, but perhaps he had never considered Colin such.

“Do you think he will recover?”

“I don’t know,” Oscar said. “His family came to take him home. I’ve offered to take his place in the meantime.”

“Of course you did,” Nicholas snorted. “I suppose you expect me to handle the entire archive myself?”

“The tribunal is only in the mornings. I’ll still be here the other half of the day.”

“Oh, what difference can it possibly make at this point?” Nicholas collapsed wearily down into his chair. “Half of England is dead. It would probably be faster to just burn the records and start over again with whoever is left.”

The pronounced slump of his body, elegant though he made even that gesture appear, gave Oscar pause. He looked properly at Nicholas for the first time, noting the hint of wildness about his eyes, and took in the disarray that conquered the table. Clearly Nicholas had been fighting battles of his own.

“Has something happened?” Oscar remembered suddenly the odd greeting he had received. “Who did you think it was coming in here?”

Nicholas made a sound of utter disgust. “Do not remind me of that ridiculous oaf. Is he still loitering about in the corridor?”

“I don’t think so.” Oscar glanced back over his shoulder, wondering if perhaps some hulking attacker might have snuck into the room behind him. “There’s no one out there but Thomas.”

“So he remains!” Nicholas sat straight up in his chair, pointed an imperious finger at Oscar. “I have never known anyone so insufferable! Go and tell him to leave.”

“You want him to leave?” Oscar echoed, baffled.

“Yes! Go tell him at once!”

Oscar decided that Nicholas had been understanding enough of Oscar’s absence that he deserved to be spared the usual comment on his eccentricity. Oscar went back to the door and opened it, sticking his head out into the corridor.

“Nicholas says you should leave,” he told Thomas.

The corner of Thomas’s mouth twitched. “No.”

“I don’t think he’s going to like that,” Oscar said. “There’s no danger leaving the archives unguarded for a bit.”

“I’m staying.” Thomas did not take his eyes off the far wall.

Oscar shrugged and closed the door. He went back to report to Nicholas. “He refused.”

To Oscar’s astonishment, Nicholas’s face flushed red, his eyes narrowed in a look of pure fury.

“What must I do be free of him?” he shouted at the rafters.

Oscar opened his mouth, but no words emerged, as his baffled mind began to grasp how the pieces of this odd puzzle fit together.

“Thomas?” he croaked at last. “Thomas is your conquest?”

Nicholas’s scowl was pure venom. “Close your mouth, Oscar. You look like an imbecile.”

Oscar walked slowly to the table and sat down in his chair, letting the shock settle. “It’s been Thomas this whole time? Since that day we went out to watch the training?”

“Exactly how fickle do you believe me to be?” Nicholas snarled.

It was all the admission Oscar needed. “So why are you trying to get rid of him? Did he do something wrong?”

“Everything about this is wrong,” Nicholas said, a decidedly petulant cast to his features.

“Did he hurt you?” Oscar pressed him, recalling Nicholas’s visible discomfort that first morning.

Nicholas shifted, sighed, and admitted grudgingly, “No. He has been perfectly well-mannered, but this cannot continue any longer. The sooner your lover deigns to return to his duties, the sooner I will be free of that nuisance.”

“He clearly doesn’t agree,” Oscar noted. “Why are you trying to chase him off?”

“He’s…” Nicholas paused, at a rare loss for words.

“He’s what?”

“A soldier.”

Oscar lifted a brow at him. “You said you were looking for a soldier.”

“For a tumble!” Nicholas burst out. “A night! Not to dally with and certainly not to form any sort of attachment with!”

The flush on his face grew darker still. He muttered something under his breath and turned his face away, staring resolutely at the rear shelves while Oscar parsed out his meaning.

“So you are attached to him,” he said quietly, “but you think he’s what? Beneath you?”

“I do not think he is beneath me, Oscar,” Nicholas said, his words equally hushed. “I know it.”

There was a rush of indignation on Thomas’s behalf, but Oscar waited for it to pass and tried to see the question from Nicholas’s eyes.

“Because he’s a soldier? Not of noble blood?”

“Yes.”

“What does that matter?” Oscar asked. “If you enjoy his company, and you suit one another, why should anything else matter?”

“That’s all very well for you and Cedric,” Nicholas said darkly. “His brother does not seem the slightest bit troubled that he has taken up with a commoner.”

Oscar ignored the urge to correct his gross misunderstanding on that count, and asked instead, “So you’re worried about what your family will think? When has that ever bothered you in the slightest?”

“Can you imagine what my brothers would have to say if they knew I let a common soldier bed me like some tavern wench? The shame it would bring on my father?”

“More than the shame of you bedding half the married men of the court?”

“You have clearly learned nothing of the nobility if you cannot see the difference.”

“I don’t give a fig for your strange rules,” Oscar agreed, “because I don’t think your family is the problem. I think you’re afraid.”

The look that Nicholas turned on him was utterly betrayed, as though Oscar should have known better than to speak this truth so plain. Oscar had never had any patience for dissembling when honesty would serve, though he had no wish to humiliate Nicholas.

He said, as kindly as he could manage, “You don’t need to be. Thomas is a good man. He isn’t like Godwin or any of those others. He isn’t like your lover from the abbey. He would never betray you that way.”

Nicholas scoffed, but the tight pinch of his brows smoothed, and his shoulders dropped a little. Then the sound of the door opening startled them both. Oscar looked up, while Nicholas scrambled to snatch a scroll from the cluttered table.

Thomas appeared between the shelves, his eyes going to Oscar. “Message for you, Oscar. There’s someone asking for you at the gate.”

“I suppose I should go and see who it is.”

“Fine,” Nicholas said. He stared at the scroll spread on his lap rather than raise his eyes, though the fresh rush of color in his cheeks betrayed his ruse.

“I’ll be back.”

Thomas led the way back to the door, taking up his post again as Oscar closed it behind them. He took two steps down the corridor, stopped, turned back.

“Thomas.” He knocked his fist against Thomas’s breast, staring up into his serious face. “Don’t give up. I know how infuriating he can be. He’s vain, and arrogant, and a complete terror, but please don’t give up on him.”

Slowly, Thomas smiled.

Oscar nodded, satisfied, and went to see what news awaited him. Expecting his brother, it was a surprise to reach the portcullis and be directed instead toward a much older man. There was something familiar about him, a sense of old resentment buried somewhere within Oscar’s memory, though it was not until he drew close that recognition struck.

“You’re Cara’s uncle. Walter.”

“I am,” Walter said, “and you are done avoiding me.”

The merchant had aged considerably since Oscar saw him last, his beard nearly white and skin permanently creased from his habitual scowl. It brought an answering look of distaste to Oscar’s face.

“I didn’t know you were looking for me, or I would have gotten this over with as quickly as possible,” he countered. “What are you doing here?”

“These soldiers have turned away every messenger I sent, so I decided to come myself.” Walter glowered at the guards stationed at the gate.

“They’ve been turning away everyone for weeks. What was so urgent that you had to trouble yourself?” Oscar said, belligerent even as he realized there could only be one explanation for Walter’s presence. “Has something has happened to Cara?”

“The fever took her,” Walter said, “like it took half the blighted city.”

The fact did not seem to trouble Walter, but the words struck Oscar like a kick to the chest, and for a moment he struggled to draw breath. “When?”

“A week ago.”

A week. Just as Oscar was beginning his fight to keep Wamba alive, his friend had succumbed to the fever. Horror and guilt rose up, that he had never reconciled with her as he always intended, that he would never now have that chance.

“Are you listening to me?”

Oscar forced his attention back to Walter, hating him with a viciousness he had not felt since he was a boy. “What?”

“I said that now you have no more excuse for shirking your responsibility.”

“What are you talking about?” Oscar snapped. “Cara made it clear that she had no use for me.”

“That was her choice, but she’s gone, I’ve looked after that little by-blow of yours long enough.”

Oscar frowned at him, uncomprehending. “My what?”

“Your son, you fool. I’m talking about your son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two bombshells in one chapter... XD


	16. Chapter 16

Oscar returned to the archives. It was all he could think to do, flee to a place of safety as he grappled with the enormity of this new revelation. Nicholas had disappeared, and Thomas with him, leaving the archives abandoned, but that suited Oscar. He admitted himself with his own key and drifted about the room on tides of long habit, lighting candles and sorting scrolls, all of it through a fog that felt very much like dreaming.

He paused, quill in hand, and considered for a moment whether it might all be a dream after all. Or if what lay at the center of that bewildering tangle of emotion in his breast seemed so terrible because it spoke to a quiet desire that he had never truly relinquished. It was too great to confront all at once, so he plucked those threads apart one by one, examining each before he set it aside.

First, and greatest, was grief for the loss of one of his oldest friends. The way he had been banished from Cara’s life those years ago had wounded Oscar deeply enough that he had made some very foolish choices in the aftermath, but he had never truly given up hope that she might one day forgive him whatever hurt he had caused and welcome him back as her friend. Looking back, he wished he had not accepted her decision to break with him so easily. That was a regret he would likely carry with him to his grave.

Beyond it lay doubt, twined up in the bittersweet memory of the night he and Cara had spent together. A simple joy shared between friends reunited, a celebration of his newly won liberty after his sentence in the castle had come to an end. Cara had been his first, but he had not been hers. She had confessed as much to him that night. Whatever Walter might think, whatever Cara might have told him, there was no way to know for certain that her child was Oscar’s.

Even if he wanted it to be.

That was it, the truth that challenged the very foundations of the life he lived. It hurt to allow that while he had been willing to relinquish fatherhood as a lesser joy than the one he had chosen, it was a decision made while one was no more than a distant possibility and the other stood before him, a promise made flesh in the form of his lover. The fear of what Wamba might say, of how this could change them, was second only to the fear of a world in which he would be forced to choose between the love of his heart and the child of his body.

By the time Oscar reached the end of this exhausting spiral of emotion, he had cleared away at least half of the mess on the table and the room was growing dim with approaching dusk. Wamba would be waiting for him. Oscar was no closer to an answer, but he had run out of time. He doused the candles and locked the archive behind him as he steeled himself to face his lover. He wondered if criminals might feel this way as they were led to their deaths, this nauseating stew of fear and anticipation that made him wish that if there was no salvation to be had, that his end at least come quickly. But the face that greeted him when he opened the door to the library was no hooded executioner.

“Hello, Oscar.” Wamba smiled at him from his seat on the couch. “You’re later than I expected.”

Oscar opened his mouth, but no sound emerged.

“Oscar? Are you alright?” Wamba’s smile collapsed into a look of concern. He pushed himself to his feet and approached to take Oscar’s limp hands in his own. Wamba’s fingers were chilled, but the touch was a comfort nonetheless.

It loosened Oscar’s throat enough to speak. “Someone came to find me today.”

Wamba’s dark eyes softened in immediate sympathy. “More ill news? Not your brother, I hope?”

“No. It seems…” Oscar stared at Wamba, the endearing little furrow between his brows, and hesitated for one final moment before he dropped the ax on both of them.

“What is it?” Wamba prompted him gently.

Oscar swallowed, choked out, “It seems I have a son.”

The change that came over Wamba was instantaneous. Every speck of color in his face vanished, and he stumbled as his legs buckled. Oscar caught him by the elbows to guide him safely down to the couch, but Wamba pulled away from Oscar’s grip, leaning back with one white fist pressed to his mouth.

“Wamba,” Oscar began, desperate to explain himself before he caused any further distress.

Wamba’s hand slid over his face, shielding his eyes from Oscar as he asked in a whisper, “Alice?”

“No!” Oscar cried. “Oh, no. Nothing like that.”

He dropped to his knees at Wamba’s feet and reached out to take his hands again, clasping them close between his own. Wamba did not pull away, but he would not meet Oscar’s eyes. They were both trembling.

“Oscar.”

“Please let me explain,” Oscar said quickly. “I swear I have never betrayed you. I couldn’t.”

“Then how?”

Oscar knew he had only one chance to get this right. The words he chose now could break both of them if he was not careful. He started from the beginning. “My friend Cara. I’ve told you about her.”

“The one who owned the tavern,” Wamba nodded.

“Not for very long,” Oscar said. “She needed money to pay the tax collector to keep it. That was the reason I snuck into the tower in the first place. To steal that coin for her.”

“I remember.” Wamba’s mouth was a tight line, but he was listening.

“She knew about you, how I felt about you,” Oscar confessed. “She was the only one I told. That day when I left, the night before I came back, I spent it with her. It was only that one night, long before I knew I had any chance with you at all. I didn’t think anything more of it, really, but now I’ve been told that she had a child from it.”

“Why did she wait so long, only to tell you now?” The way he said it, the plaintive note of fear that he could not mask, tore at Oscar’s heart.

“She didn’t come. Her uncle did.” Oscar’s voice faded as he spoke that truth he still could not bear to face. “She died. The fever took her.”

Oscar did not know how he looked as he said it, but it must have been deeply pitiful, for Wamba’s arms were wrapped around him a moment later. It was an awkward embrace, with Oscar still on his knees, but it was exactly what he needed. Oscar fell into it, laying his throbbing head down in Wamba’s lap.

“I think she never told me because she knew how much you mean to me,” he mumbled into Wamba’s robe. “She knew that I would marry her if I found out, that she would come between us. Every time I saw her, she always asked me if I was making you happy. She wanted us to be happy.”

“Oh, Oscar.” Wamba’s hands smoothed over his shoulders, and he bent to press kisses into Oscar’s hair. “Then we owe her a debt of gratitude.”

The tears came silently, welling up to spill from his tightly shut eyes. Wamba let him weep for a few quiet minutes, one unsteady hand stroking up and down Oscar’s spine, before he spoke again.

“So you have a son.”

“Perhaps.” Oscar sat back on his heels, scrubbing at the moisture clinging to his cheeks. “It might all be a misunderstanding.”

Wamba brushed Oscar’s hair back from his brow. “There’s only one way to know. You should go and meet him.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” Oscar admitted.

“You will be,” Wamba smiled, though there was a hint of sadness to it. “I know you will. Who is looking after him now?”

“Cara’s uncle. A merchant named Walter.”

“That’s kind of him.”

“Hardly,” Oscar snorted. “He’s the most unfeeling man I’ve ever met. He did nothing to help Cara when her father died, only waited for her to fail so he could take the tavern from her. He said that if I don’t claim the boy, he’ll have to start earning his keep.”

Wamba was quickly alert, his back straight and his eyes gone sharp. “Go and claim him, Oscar.”

Oscar looked up at him, perplexed by the sudden change. “It’s late now. I’ll go tomorrow.”

“No.” Wamba shook his head, a tight knot forming at the corner of his jaw. “Go now.”

“What difference will one more night make?”

“I will go if you will not,” Wamba said, and Oscar finally saw the urgency in him for what it was. He should have recognized it sooner, knowing Wamba as he did.

“He must be barely six,” he said. “Surely you don’t think…”

“He is a child,” Wamba said, “in the care of a man who feels nothing for him, and without his mother there to protect him. All of that is correct?”

“Yes.”

Wamba pushed himself up and prodded Oscar to his feet as well. “You should never underestimate what men are capable of.”

That was how Oscar found himself with a cloak shoved into his hand, keeping pace with Wamba’s determined stride as he led the way to the gate. Oscar had a distant thought that he should try to convince Wamba to stay behind, not least because he was still recovering from his own battle with the fever, but Wamba displayed nothing of frailty now. He had a greater energy in his urgency than he had in weeks, and in truth Oscar was relieved to have Wamba take charge, put order and purpose to the wild tilt of Oscar’s indecision. He saw the correct path, and all Oscar need do was follow.

He slung his cloak about his shoulders while Wamba explained their errand to an incredulous Farren. Beyond the gate, it was Oscar’s task to guide them through the streets of the city. Though the bitter cold of deep winter had finally loosened its hold, the streets of the city were nearly deserted, those who remained no doubt mourning their dead and regaining their strength. The lantern over the entrance to the Gull and Anvil was dark, but the light of a fire glowed in the front window. Oscar slowed as he approached, but the brush of Wamba’s shoulder against his gave him strength to raise his hand and knock.

The door creaked open an inch. A single eye in a slice of pale face peered at them through the narrow gap. “The tavern is closed. Go find your drink elsewhere.”

“I’m not here for a drink,” Oscar said. “Walter is expecting me.”

The eye narrowed at him, then grew wide. The door swung open, revealing a young woman with a blue kerchief covering her head. “You’re Oscar.”

“I am,” he agreed warily. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I could hardly mistake you.”

“What’s taking so long, Amelia?” came an irritable shout from behind her. “I want to get this done.”

“Oscar is here,” Amelia replied, her sudden scowl leaving no doubt of her feelings toward the man who hailed her. She stepped back, swinging the door wide to grant Oscar entry.

The Gull and Anvil was exactly as he remembered it, the pitted wooden bar and motley collection of stools beneath a low beamed ceiling. Oscar took it in as he stepped over the threshold, swamped in vivid memories of many hours spent here with Cara. His eyes jumped to the storeroom door, fully expecting her to walk through it at any moment. Except she was not there any longer. Oscar took a breath to steady himself, and reminded himself that he was not alone. He glanced at Wamba, who looked around the tavern curiously. It was strange to see him there, out of place in a scene from Oscar’s past.

“So you came. That is a surprise.” Walter was seated at a table not far from the fire, stacks of coins and a rough skin marked with a growing tally spread out before him. He had turned in his chair to treat Oscar to an unfriendly glare. 

“Where is he?” Oscar asked, eager to be quit of this man and this hollowed out place as quickly as possible.

“I sent him up to bed,” Amelia said. She was already moving toward the stairs. “I’ll go and fetch him.”

“Pack his things,” Walter shouted after her. His beady glare returned to Oscar. “And in the meantime, I’ll have a few shillings out of you.”

Wamba rounded on him faster than Oscar could speak, his eyes hard with fury. His voice was perfectly even. “I trust for your sake, sir, that you are not in the business of selling children.”

Walter faltered, but quickly recovered, puffed up like an indignant toad. “I’ve kept him at my own expense while this lout ignored his responsibility. Should I expect no compensation for the inconvenience?”

“I already told you why your messengers were turned away,” Oscar snapped at him. “That wasn’t any of my doing.”

“Your little bastard has been a thorn in my side for years. I should collect every penny I’ve ever had to spend on him from you. With interest!”

“That was Cara’s choice, not mine,” Oscar said coldly, “and frankly I’m still not convinced this isn’t some ploy you’ve concocted to weasel a handful of coin out of me. How are we to know the boy’s even…”

Wamba’s arm clamped down suddenly on his forearm, halting him mid-word. Oscar turned to look at him where he stood, staring wide-eyed at something behind Oscar.

“Oh, Oscar,” he breathed. “He is yours.”

Oscar swung around, his gaze skipping quickly past Amelia to the small figure that stood before her. He looked down into a pair of bright blue eyes, identical to his own, and knew at once that it was true.

Whatever divine hand had formed Oscar and his brother to be so alike had undoubtedly shaped this boy as well. A pointed chin and puckish little nose, two slanted brows below a wild shock of black hair. He saw why Cara had felt she had no choice but to chase him away. She could never have convinced him that this child belonged to any man but him.

Oscar and the boy stared at one another in silence, until Wamba broke the stalemate. He stepped past Oscar and knelt down between them to offer the boy a smile. It was unsteady, but very kind, much like his voice as he said softly, “Hello.”

“’Lo,” the boy replied. He knuckled one eye with a small fist and yawned.

“Sorry to wake you so suddenly,” Wamba said, “but we were eager to meet you. What’s your name?”

“Eral.”

Wamba glanced up at Oscar, waiting for him to speak, but Oscar could only stare dumbly between them.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Eral,” Wamba went on. “My name is Cedric. And do you know who that is?”

He pointed to Oscar, and Oscar abruptly found himself the target of that unnervingly familiar blue gaze again.

“He looks like me,” Eral observed.

“That he does,” Wamba agreed. “Well spotted.”

“This is a ridiculous waste of time.” Walter stomped toward them with a scowl, and several things happened at once. Walter reached for Eral, who retreated back against Amelia’s skirts, while Wamba shot to his feet to step in front of Walter, facing him down with a stony glare.

“Enough!” Oscar barked, the threat of a fight snapping him free from his stupor at last. They all stopped, staring at him.

He took advantage of the pause to follow Wamba’s example, dropping to one knee to put himself face to face with Eral.

“Eral, my name is Oscar,” he said. “I’m your father.”

Eral’s small face pinched in a frown. “My father is far away.”

“Who told you that?”

“Mother,” Eral said. “She said my father lives in a castle. He has an important job and has to stay far away.”

Oscar had to fight to draw a steady breath, but he forced a smile to his face and nodded. “She was right. I have been far away, but I came back.”

“Why?”

“I came back for you,” Oscar told him, “to see if you’d like to come and live with me now.”

“Are we going to your castle?”

Oscar hesitated. He had not discussed with Wamba what he should do with the boy after they met him. Oscar briefly considered taking him to his brother, but he had not seen Emmett since Christmas.

“Yes, Eral,” Wamba spoke over Oscar’s shoulder. “We’re going to the castle.”

Oscar glanced up at him. Wamba smiled back at him, small and hesitant, as uncertain as Oscar was, but the promise was made now. Oscar looked again to Eral, only six years old, just the age Oscar had been when he lost both of his parents. But Oscar had never been without family. He had always had Emmett. He could do no less than that for his own child.

He offered Eral his hand. “Would you like that?”

A tiny palm slid into his, warm and light, and something soft and peaceful settled in Oscar’s heart.

“Yes, Father.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

Even his excitement at the prospect of the castle could not conquer Eral’s weariness at being awoken past the hour when he would normally be abed. He set out enthusiastically enough, one hand tucked securely into Oscar’s, but as their path through the darkened streets stretched on, his strength began to flag and his steps slowed to a shuffle. Oscar took one look at his listing head and drooping eyes and bent to scoop the boy up into his arms.

It was a familiar motion for Oscar. It should not have shocked him as it did. He had often held his nephews this way, but there was something about this particular weight resting against his chest, the feeling as skinny arms circled his neck in instinctual trust, that shook something deep within Oscar. The patter of Eral’s heart, quick as all small hearts beat quick, and the feather softness of the breaths that brushed Oscar’s skin echoed back in a bond that was as startling for its fierce edge as for the rapidity with which it had developed. He cradled the child as close as he dared, captivated by the formations of bone he could feel beneath his hands and the bump of small feet against his hips as he walked.

A murmur of nearby voices dispelled the trance that had fallen over him. He paused to turn and look behind him, where Wamba and Farren held quiet conference. The guard captain’s face was creased in a frown, and Wamba had both hands clasped around his leather bracer, leaning heavily toward him as they walked. The small pack containing Eral’s meager possessions had passed at some point from Wamba’s hands to Farren’s. It seemed the urgency that had driven him to make the journey to the tavern had departed with Eral’s safe retrieval, taking his strength along with it.

Sharp little needles of guilt pricked at Oscar’s heart, that he had become so engrossed in Eral as to forget Wamba’s condition. His first urge was to go to his lover, but he had only one set of arms, and they were already occupied. It was with a sinking sense of dismay that he realized there could be many moments like this ahead, when he must choose to care for one at the cost of the other.

“Are you alright?” he asked instead, voice low in deference to the slumbering child.

Wamba and Farren both looked at him. Farren’s glower only darkened, but Wamba summoned a weary smile to his wan face. “I’m fine, Oscar. It’s not that much farther. We should get back and let him sleep in a proper bed.”

Wamba took another determined step, matched at once by Farren, who supported him with the constancy of a stone statue. His presence was a mercy to them both, whatever dark opinions he might hold of Oscar at that moment. Oscar waited for them to pass by, letting them walk ahead of him so he might at least observe how Wamba fared even if he could do nothing to help. It was effective at keeping his strange fascination with Eral at bay until they arrived at the tower.

“Do you need anything else?” Farren asked as he handed off Eral’s pack to Wamba before their chamber door.

“Not tonight. Thank you, Farren.” The smile Wamba showed him was warm with the quiet affection they shared, an understanding cultivated in a time long before Oscar knew them. Farren returned it, though there was a grimness about his eyes as he glanced between Wamba and Oscar.

Oscar set that look aside to contemplate later, more concerned with relieving himself of the burden in his arms. Precious though he increasingly held it to be, Eral’s weight seemed to be growing with each passing minute. Oscar followed Wamba into the library and made straight for the low cot tucked between the hearth and the shelves of the far wall. It had been Oscar’s for many years, before he had claimed his preferred place in Wamba’s bed, but in all the time since they had never bothered to remove it. Perhaps it served as part of the pretense of chastity they maintained, but Oscar was pleased by the thought that their hesitation had somehow been in anticipation of this moment, a premonition of things to come.

He bent to sweep aside the blankets and set Eral down on worn linen sheets. It took some doing to pry the boy’s arms from his neck, but he hushed Eral’s murmur as his comfort was disturbed and guided his disheveled head to the pillow. Oscar slipped off Eral’s shoes, then tucked the blankets carefully up around his narrow shoulders. Eral settled quickly, smacking his lips as he curled into the blankets. Oscar watched him, fascinated by every minute detail of his expression.

Then he turned to grin at Wamba. “The bed seems to agree with him.”

Wamba stood on the far side of the hearth, watching both of them with shadowed eyes and Eral’s pack dangling from his hand. He wore an expression that Oscar could not quite decipher, suspended somewhere between worry and longing. He covered it with a stiff smile and opened his mouth as though to make some reply, but no words emerged.

Oscar’s heart lurched as he recognized Wamba’s stiff posture, braced as though for a blow, and the way he kept that distance between them. It seemed strange that he should do so now, when he had been so quick to action in the tavern, decisive where Oscar could not be. That certainty was gone, consumed by whatever misgiving it was that had stolen his voice. Oscar wondered if Farren might have put some doubt into him, or if he regretted allowing Oscar to bring Eral here at all, now that the deed was done.

Whatever the cause, Oscar was at liberty now to give his whole attention to his lover. He crossed the hearth to Wamba, who offered the pack to him as he approached, his eyes skittering away from Oscar’s face. Oscar took it from him and set it absently aside, reaching out with his other hand to slip it around his Wamba’s waist and pull him close instead.

“What is it?” he asked, head tipped to speak into Wamba’s ear. “What’s wrong?”

Wamba’s hands rose to settle on Oscar’s chest, unsteady as the rest of him. “Nothing, Oscar. It’s been an eventful day. That’s all.”

“It has,” Oscar agreed, “but there’s something else. Are you unhappy that he’s here?”

“Of course not,” came Wamba’s immediate reply, “but do you think…”

“Do I think?” Oscar pulled away, just far enough to look at him, and witness that wistfulness overtake him again as he looked past Oscar to where Eral slept.

“Do you think he might be happy here?”

“I don’t know,” Oscar admitted. “I’ve only just met him. I hope he will be.”

He watched Wamba’s throat bob on a swallow.

Oscar stroked his hand over Wamba’s hip, and leaned in to murmur into his hair, “What are you afraid of?”

“This is nothing like what he’s accustomed to,” Wamba said quietly. “I only wondered if you might be considering giving him a different life.”

“A different life?” Oscar frowned, turning the question over in his head until he was sure he had understood what Wamba was trying to ask, in his oblique way. “A life without you, you mean?”

Wamba’s shoulders lifted in a shrug, but Oscar felt the shudder that ran through him all the same. “He deserves to have a mother.”

Oscar should have expected this. He had been repeatedly warned, though it had taken him much longer than he cared to admit to truly understand, how deeply rooted was Wamba’s belief that he would always be first on the block when a sacrifice was required. But in this instance there was no need for any sacrifice at all, if Wamba did not want there to be.

Oscar forced his voice to remain steady as he replied, “He had a mother. I know that she loved him, and it would only dishonor her memory to try to replace her. Besides which, I made you a promise.”

“That was before you knew he existed.” Wamba was still staring at Eral, the anguish of guilt clear in every line of his face. “And it is because of me that he never knew you.”

“That was not your fault. The choice was made for us, and we do not deserve to be punished for it. He will be happy here. How could he not?” He pressed his brow gently to Wamba’s, catching his gaze. “You love him already, don’t you?”

Wamba stared back at him, very close, and whispered, “Of course I do. He’s yours.”

The intensity of the love that swelled inside him made Oscar’s lungs seize and his heart shudder. He took an uneven breath, but wasted no words on promises of forever. He spoke only the truth that Wamba needed to believe in that moment, and let him take it as he would.

“I need you. I can’t do this without you. Please say you’ll help me.”

Wamba’s eyes went liquid soft, the worry easing with the assurance that he would have a place on this new road they had been presented. It gave way to that boundless generosity that Oscar knew so well and had come to rely on. “Yes. Of course.”

Oscar had no choice but to kiss him. Wamba responded on long habit, his lips parting for a brief taste before he pushed Oscar back.

“He might see.”

“He’ll get used to it.”

Oscar tugged his lover’s body more firmly against his own and kissed him again, with the full force of his devotion. He pressed his tongue between Wamba’s lips as he wrapped both arms about the narrow waist to lift Wamba from his feet. Even weary as his arms were, that weight was no burden. Wamba’s hands slid around his neck, threading into his hair and cradling his head, and that sensation required no examination. This was as natural to Oscar now as breathing, this slow space where they basked each in the presence of the other.

He carried Wamba through to the bedchamber that way, kicking the door closed behind them. He set Wamba down on the bed and stood back to regard the delicate flush that had risen in pale cheeks.

“Are you strong enough for this?” he asked, teasing a finger over the first stay of Wamba’s high collar.

“Please don’t ask me that now,” Wamba said. He pulled Oscar back to him, face tilted up in invitation. “Please just…”

Oscar understood. It was weeks since they had found any occasion for this simple pleasure, weeks of upheaval and tragedy and the constant threat of losing everything that they had built together from one moment to the next. The need to reaffirm that bond clamored within both of them, too desperate to be denied.

Still, Oscar was gentle as he took Wamba’s mouth again, stroking slowly into him as his hands went about the familiar labor of dispensing with Wamba’s robe. He caressed the smooth skin of Wamba’s chest as he slid the cloth back over his shoulders, his thumb absently tracing the top edge of a scar as it was revealed. Wamba clung to Oscar’s shoulders with one arm to keep their mouths firmly attached as he kicked free of the rest of his garments and moved on to Oscar’s. They were forced to part when he tugged Oscar’s tunic up and off over his head, but dove in again at once as soon as it was free.

Oscar held Wamba with one arm around his back. The other caressed the pale length of a bare thigh, kneading tenderly at sensitive flesh as it went. Wamba made a soft sound into Oscar’s mouth and shifted his legs wider, making space for Oscar to press close, but Oscar paused and stepped back instead. Wamba let him go only reluctantly, hands trailing over Oscar’s skin as he stepped away.

He watched, worrying one reddened lip between his teeth, while Oscar fetched the small vessel that had been banished to the medicine chest to make space for Morris’s potions. Oscar set it on the table and lifted the bedding away to invite Wamba beneath. “Here. Get under the blankets.”

Wamba did as he asked, though he caught Oscar by the wrist and tugged him down after him. Oscar followed, settling his body carefully down atop his lover as Wamba bent his knees to make a place for him. Their cocks greeted one another, weeping with the joy of this long-awaited reunion. It was warm and intimate, ensconced in their bed and surrounded by the mingled scents of their bodies. Oscar let the comfort of it settle over him as he slotted his mouth to Wamba’s again, and was eagerly welcomed.

He rocked his hips against Wamba’s, savoring the slow build of tension, until Wamba shifted to reach out for the oil. Oscar caught his hand before he found it, and snatched up the other for good measure. He threaded his fingers through Wamba’s to trap his hands against the pillow above his head.

“Oscar,” Wamba protested, but Oscar silenced him with a kiss.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

He kept both of Wamba’s hands captive as he shifted up far enough to slip his own between them and press slick fingers inside his lover’s body. Wamba’s eyes closed, and his mouth fell slack on a slow sigh as Oscar carefully worked him open. Oscar had a special fondness for this moment, when he could study the way Wamba’s features flickered, watch Wamba’s pleasure building without the distraction of his own, until his hips writhed and he looked up at Oscar with a plea in his eyes.

Oscar slipped his hand free of Wamba, used it to guide his cock as he pressed close and gently breached him. It was excruciating, the slow slide that set every inch of his skin alight, but he kept to his chosen pace until he was sheathed fully inside his pinned lover.

He nosed at Wamba’s jaw, nipped at his throat as he asked, “How does that feel?”

Wamba’s eyes were tightly closed. “Hot,” he panted out. “Full.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” Wamba’s head shook. “No, it’s good.”

“Good,” Oscar said. He licked a long line up Wamba’s neck. “I love that sound you make.”

“What sound?”

Oscar slid halfway out of him, then thrust slowly back in, taking careful aim as he did. Wamba’s back bowed, his fingers closed tight around Oscar’s, and his voice rose on a high, soft cry.

“That one.”

He followed the thrust with another, and another, until the sounds that escaped Wamba were more sob than moan, and his voice weak as he gasped out, “Oscar. Oscar.”

“I’m here,” Oscar assured him, pressing kisses to his hot cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kept his movements slow, and tender, and words were well beyond both of them by the time climax swelled and rolled past in languid waves, leaving a shivering contentment behind.

Oscar lay close between Wamba’s legs as their bodies quieted, draped over his lover like a blanket. Wamba slipped his hands free of Oscar’s grasp and threaded them into his hair. It was peaceful, sharing simple heat and touch in the wake of their loving.

Oscar kissed a gentle line along the fine peak of Wamba’s collarbone. “Thank you for making me see sense tonight.”

Wamba’s fingers stroked down his neck, teasing the sensitive skin behind his ear on their return. “I know the loss of his mother is a deep wound, but I’m relieved that he appears otherwise unharmed.”

It seemed a shame to Oscar to risk the tranquil moment they enjoyed, but his curiosity got the better of him. He took one of Wamba’s wandering hands in his, and asked, “Did you really think someone might,” he hesitated, unable to voice the word, “assault him?”

Wamba fell still. “It is not unheard of,” he said quietly, “and not a thing to be risked if there is any other choice.”

“How old were you?” Oscar asked. “The first time?”

Wamba just looked at him for a long moment, and Oscar wondered if he had pushed too far. Then Wamba said, “Six. I was six.”

Icy shock washed away the last trace of Oscar’s contented languor. He braced himself up on his elbows, staring at Wamba, who lowered his eyes. Oscar fought to find something to say, anything that could remedy the horror of that truth, but in the end all that would come to him was, “Will you tell me what happened?”

“There is little more to tell.”

“Who was it?” Oscar pressed, though he was almost certain that he already knew the answer.

“Galen. My first master." Wamba took a quiet breath. “I did not understand what he meant to do, at first. It was a pain like I had never felt. I thought that he was killing me. I thought it was a hot iron that would pierce me through and boil my insides as it went. I couldn’t even beg him to stop. He had beaten my voice from me already. But eventually it ended, and I did not die.”

He glanced warily at Oscar, frozen in horror, and huffed a rueful breath.

“I'm sorry. That was too much.”

“No,” Oscar said quickly, shaking off his stupor. “If you could live through it, I can certainly survive hearing of it. You never have to keep these things from me. Whatever you want to tell me, I'll listen. I just wish I could have been there. I wish I could have stopped him."

"And what a darling little savior you would have been."

Wamba offered a weak smile, but Oscar could not make light of his pain as Wamba did. He had witnessed for himself how those old hurts haunted his lover still. He turned Wamba’s hand to place gentle kisses in his cupped palm.

"I'm amazed that you could let anyone touch you at all, after that.”

Wamba’s hand on his cheek was tender. “It’s not the same, Oscar. You’re not the same. Don’t ever think that you are.”

“Whatever happened then, you’re safe now,” Oscar told him, “and so is he.”

“Yes,” Wamba agreed, “and we will see that he stays that way.”

“And” Oscar said firmly, “we will be very happy together.”

Wamba smiled, and Oscar thought he just might believe it, as he pulled Oscar back for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex and for discussion of physical and sexual abuse of a child.

**Author's Note:**

> And on her lover’s arm she leant,  
> And round her waist she felt it fold,  
> And far across the hills they went  
> In that new world which is the old:  
> Across the hills, and far away  
> Beyond their utmost purple rim,  
> And deep into the dying day  
> The happy princess follow’d him.
> 
> And o’er them many a sliding star,  
> And many a merry wind was borne,  
> And, stream’d thro’ many a golden bar,  
> The twilight melted into morn.  
> And o’er the hills, and far away  
> Beyond their utmost purple rim,  
> Beyond the night, across the day,  
> Thro’ all the world she follow’d him.
> 
> The Day-Dream  
> by Lord Alfred Tennyson


End file.
